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TIME O’ DAY 



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“It Seems Selfish to Refuse Such 
Tiny Bit of Pleasure” 


A 


TIME O’ DAY 


By 

DORIS EGERTON JONES 

Author of Peter Piper ” 


With a Frontispiece by 
EDMUND FREDERICK 



PHILADELPHIA 

GEORGE W. JACOBS & COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS r 

va ?>• 




Copyright, 1915, by 
George W. Jacobs & Company 
Published Aprily igi^ 



All rights reserved 
Printed in U. S. A. 


^PR -8 1915 

© 01.4398711 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER page 

I. The O’Deas 9 

11 . Thyme Meets Bob Gale ... 24 

III. Nicer than a Brother . . .31 

IV. Marje and Petermac . . . .38 

V. Poor Ida 46 

VI. Thyme’s Latest ” . . . . 51 

VII. Beside the Lake . . . *58 

VIII. Ada and Vane 70 

IX. Max’s Mother 76 

X. An Awful Fool . . . . .83 

XI. Always Beyond 94 

XII. Friendship or Marriage ? . . . 102 

XIII. The Tragedy of Disillusion . . 108 

XIV. Dr. Philip Comes to Tea . . .116 

XV. The Ethics of Prudery . . .122 

XVI. Ida’s Secret 127 

XVII. Bob Gale Returns . . . .135 

XVIII. Consequences . . . . . 148 

XIX. A Surprise Meeting . . . .156 

XX. Micky and Vane Go Home . . .167 

XXL Mr. Wymondham . . . .172 

XXII. Two Letters 178 

XXIII. In the Garden 181 

XXIV. The Most Educating Thing in the 

World 188 

XXV. A Bonza Finish 194 

XXVI. The Secret Places .... 200 


8 


CONTENTS 


XXVII. 

Voting Day 


. 209 

XXVIII. 

At Thirroul . 


. 214 

XXIX. 

A Queer Courtship . 


. 220 

XXX. 

The Price of Love . 


. 225 

XXXI. 

On the Veranda 


. 234 

XXXII. 

Flower of the Pea . 


. 242 

XXXIII. 

Letters .... 


. 249 

XXXIV. 

Bad News .... 


. 257 

XXXV. 

Advice on Marriage 


. 261 

XXXVI. 

Thyme is Jealous 


. 267 

XXXVII. 

The Battleground of Life 


. 274 

XXXVIII. 

A Letter from Bob 


. 280 

XXXIX. 

Good-Bye .... 


. 286 

XL. 

Played With and Thrown Away 

. 297 

XLI. 

Max and Marjoram . 


• 304 

XLII. 

Gordon Intervenes . 


• 311 

XLIII. 

Out of Her Life 


. 317 

XLIV. 

The Highest Bidder 


. 324 

XLV. 

Ada and Mr. Wymondham 


• 331 

XLVI. 

Dr. Philip Proposes 


• 336 

XLVII. 

Gordon Breaks Out 


• 344 

XLVIII. 

The Truth About Bob . 


• 350 

XLIX. 

Thyme Changes Her Name 


. 360 


TIME O’ DAY 


CHAPTER 1 

THE O’DEAS 

I BELIEVE I’ll write down what happens to me. I 
think it would be fun. One forgets things so, as 
they get into the background, and it’s so amusing, 
later on, to find what you thought of people at the 
time you met them, and not what you think you 
thought after you’ve got to know them a bit. 

The idea struck me the other day, when I was 
reading over an old letter I found in my drawer, 
which I must have forgotten to post. It was to 
Maida Murray. She’s my greatest friend. I sup- 
pose I wrote it when she was away on the Apple 
trip. I did laugh over it. It mentions all sorts of 
people that I feel so differently about now. I found 
a whole page all about a man I had just met and 
thought frightfully nice. Gus Wymondham his 
name is. However could I have liked him ? I 
think he’s the most detestable person I know. I 
wonder if I’ll detest people I like now in another two 
years. 

Wouldn’t it be funny if I truly wrote down just 
what I think and feel, not pretending to myself, and 


10 


TIME O’ DAY 


left it as an heirloom to my great-grandchildren ? 
It’d be heaps more interesting than a novel, wouldn’t 
it ? And how they would laugh, to think the fat old 
frump with the wrinkles and five chins (I’m sure I 
shall be dreadfully fat when I am old) used to lose 
sleep at nights over men, and kiss them in the moon- 
light. 

Doesn’t that sound frightful ? What a shameless 
old great-grandmother you have, my dear children ; 
but she’s going to tell you the honest cold truth, 
with no trimmings, and, anyway, I expect you’re 
just as bad yourselves. Aren’t you, now? Look 
your great-grandmother in the face and dare deny it. 

Would you like to know anything about your 
venerable great aunts and uncles when they were 
young ? They weren’t a bit good, like your mother 
will tell you. Don’t you believe a word of it ! They 
had their little fling; and take your great-grand- 
mother’s advice and have yours, too. One gets old 
too quickly. Heigh-ho! she’s getting old now; 
she’s twenty-two. Isn’t it frightful ? 

I’ll tell you a little about them, if you like, but no 
long explanations. I hate explanations of any sort. 
The more you explain the more people wonder what 
your real reason was. Aunt Emma used always to 
say to me, “ Never explain, my dear ; people really 
don’t care.” 

Anyway, like the poet’s little girl, “ we are seven.” 
Dad, mother, Tam, Marjoram, myself, Fred (for the 
triplets don’t count), and last, but by no means least. 
Beauty. Beauty is our goat. We used to call Mar- 


THE O DEAS 


1 1 

joram Beauty once, but when we got what Tam 
called the genuine article we tossed up for the name, 
and Beauty won. She wouldn’t really be so bad- 
looking if it wasn’t for a black line running cross- 
wise over her face that gives her quite a diabolical 
appearance. 

We have had her for years ; she’s too old to be of 
any use now, but we keep her from sentiment. We 
got her ages ago, when we lived at Willibindi — our 
station, you know. The doctor ordered mother 
goat’s milk for some reason or another. I shall 
never forget one night when mother tried to milk 
her. I forget why she did — perhaps dad bet her 
she couldn’t — but anyway she had her brought into 
the kitchen. She made dad hold her horns, for 
Beauty seemed anxious to explore the place, and 
Tam and Marjoram and Fred and I, according to 
directions, each seized a leg. 

Well, mother started. I don’t quite remember 
what happened, but when I recovered we were all in 
different corners of the room, and dad looked like a 
folded concertina. Mother’s awfully determined, and 
this just wound her up ; she said she’d milk that goat 
or kill us all in the attempt. We were of the opin- 
ion she’d kill us. She tried again, but Beauty sud- 
denly recollected a pressing engagement in the next 
corner. Mother picked herself up and followed. 
Then Beauty found she’d mistaken the corner. 
Mother went too. After about twenty minutes we 
began to think we weren’t going to have any milk 
after all. Beauty thought she’d put the matter be- 


12 


TIME DAY 


yond any doubt, and went for a constitutional. We 
didn’t follow, but she came back next day. 

Biddy hates her because she’s a Socialist — at least, 
she never asks for anything she can take. Biddy’s 
full name is Bridget Maria Susan Sophia Katherine 
Margaret Elizabeth Jane Roberts. It’s a good thing 
Biddy hasn’t to sign checks often ; even her initials 
would take a line. But she possessed eight maiden 
aunts, and each promised silver spoons at her death 
if Biddy was given her name. When they found out 
the result they all went back on their promise. It’s 
no use trying to please everybody, but I think that’s 
been said before. 

Dad and mother I can’t describe. You can’t 
describe your parents unless they are particularly 
bad or especially good. If they’re the latter you 
make them sound intolerable, and if the former it’s 
undutiful to show them up. Tam is our eldest — his 
real name is Idris Llewellyn, but Tam is so much 
more convenient ; Marjoram is pretty ; the triplets 
are not really triplets, but just the youngest and three 
girls running, Ada and Fay and Betty ; and I’ve said 
Fred before, and me. Thyme O’Dea. 

Of course my name’s a joke and I have to live up 
to it. It’s rather hard having to go through life as a 
joke, especially if you’re a girl. Do sympathize, 
great-grandchildren ; every time I meet a man he 
makes a humorous remark on it, and seems to think 
it’s a discovery of his own. I’ve cultivated a special 
laugh for the “ time o’ day joke ” now. Our house 
is called The Seasons, though our friends mostly 


THE O’DEAS 


»3 

lengthen it to “ The Seasoning,” on account of the 
variety it contains, or so they say. 

Now, my dears, you’ve quite a different idea of 
your great-grand relations, haven’t you? Yes, we 
were quite as much alive as you at one time, though 
we’re dead now. Ugh I how I hate to think of being 
dead ; life is so jolly. 

I think I’d better start a new subject, don’t you ? 
I go on and on and quite forget to stop. Gordon 
calls me The Brook when he wants to be rude and 
La Belle Aude when he means to be polite. I forget 
who Aude was, great-grandchildren ; perhaps you 
know. I think she was Roland or Oliver’s sweet- 
heart, I never can remember. Anyway, she was 
something nice to look at. 

Gordon has a French streak in him somewhere. 
He is my pal. His full name is Gordon Meryon 
Haste, and he lives next door. Mrs. Haste is a 
widow, a sweet lavendery widow, like you read 
about, only she can be nasty when she likes, although 
she is so little. She looks so quaint beside Gordon ; 
he’s about six feet four I should think. Gordon’s a 
journalist at present ; he’s on a Sydney paper, but I 
don’t know how long he’ll stop — he never stays very 
long at anything, which worries Mrs. Haste — but he 
is so clever he can always get a billet at something 
or another, and she has plenty of money to live on, 
so the boys haven’t got to worry about her ; and 
Gordon says, as he has no one dependent on him, 
why shouldn’t he live his life as it suits him ? 

That’s only fair, isn’t it ? 


H 


TIME O’ DAY 


He*s only been at this a little over a year ; before 
that he was away in the West for a couple of years 
knocking about up-country and in the Northern 
Territory too. He’s frightfully clever, he writes 
stories and verse and articles on all sorts of subjects, 
but he hates settled work ; he likes going off to queer 
out-of-the-way places ; he says that to learn things is 
living, the other is just stagnation. But he’s a dear. 
Max is a dear too, only a different sort ; he’s a flirt. 
Max is his younger brother. He and I got rather 
fond of each other when Gordon was away in the 
West. Max has gone to the West too now, funnily 
enough ; he went just before Gordon came back. 
He is traveling for his firm. He is a lot steadier than 
Gordon. He writes to me pretty often and I write 
to him not quite so often. It would seem horrid not 
to at all, because he really used to give me an awfully 
good time for a while ; it would seem caddish to drop 
him just because he’s away, and not let him hear any 
of the news, don’t you think ? 

Of course his mother writes to him, but it isn’t the 
same thing. She doesn’t know all the little bits of 
interest I do. Who’s engaged she knows, but she 
doesn’t guess like I do who’s likely to be engaged, 
and who’s just quarreled, and what girls are blos- 
soming out, and what are going off. I guess i’ll have 
to number myself among those who are going off 
soon, although I don’t think I’ve begun yet, but fair 
girls do fade in this climate quickly, and I’m twenty- 
two, you know. I’m getting old. 

Isn’t it funny how you change ? I hate change, it 


THE O’DEAS 


15 


seems so sad. Every birthday I cry because Fm 
changing, and I feel most dreadfully wise — I suppose 
because I am still foolish enough to believe in wis- 
dom. It’s peculiar how we love to be thought know- 
ing when we are really innocent. I never forgave 
my best friend, when I was just eighteen, for calling 
me a sweet unsophisticated little thing. Now, of 
course. I’d be flattered. You needn’t laugh, great- 
grandchildren. I can look most — unworldly, shall I 
say ? The recipe’s simple. I lift my eyebrows a tiny 
puzzled trifle, part my lips just a wee to show a sus- 
picion of teeth — my teeth are my one good point, or 
so Marjoram often kindly informs me — and open my 
eyes wide. I haven’t found a man yet can resist it. 

How funny it does seem now to think how miser- 
able I was when Max went away, but I know I was. 
He spent most of his last evening with me, though 
of course he had to spend part of it with his mother, 
who adores him, and, do you know, we both nearly 
cried. I thought I was quite badly in love with him 
when I found he was going away, and I let him kiss 
me as much as he wanted to, for I knew he felt badly 
too. I had never let him kiss me before, except 
when I couldn’t help it, because he was such a flirt. 
I wonder how girls can stop men kissing them when 
they insist. I can’t. Perhaps it is I hate hurting 
any one’s feelings ; it hurts me so much more than 
them. When I have to tell a man he mustn’t be 
cheeky I feel as horrible as I do when I have to pass an 
old blind or crippled beggar without giving him a 
penny. I couldn’t do it as a child. When we went 


i6 


TIME O’ DAY 


to Melbourne, when I was little, I hated going out 
on the streets — there were so many beggars to pass. 
Dad and mother used to get so angry with me, for 
if they wouldn’t give me a penny for every one we 
met I used to walk meekly beside them with tears 
streaming all down my face. 

I suppose it’s cowardly and weak of me, but I do 
hate being hurt myself and I can’t bear to hurt any 
one else’s feelings. Marje says I’m a soft idiot. I 
suppose I must be. I suppose that’s why I write to 
Max, for often I think it’s too much nuisance and I’ll 
stop, but then he begs me not to be so mean — what 
can I do ? Oh, well, perhaps he’ll fall in love with 
some girl in the West and forget all about me, but 
he says none of them are as nice as me. 

Gordon isn’t a bit like Max. He’s big and dark 
and rather quiet, but underneath the biggest tease you 
ever met. We all like him and his mother im- 
mensely. They live next door to us as I said, and 
having no sisters of his own, I think he rather likes 
just dropping in and talking to all of us, but he’s my 
particular pal. I tell him all sorts of things, jtist like 
I’m doing you, and he’s never shocked, though he 
often scolds me. Most outsiders think we are in love 
with each other because we go about a lot together, 
but we’re not a bit. 

I don’t think I’m in love with any one just at pres- 
ent ; I rather wish I were. I wonder how one can be 
quite sure and certain one is? Even when I am 
quite badly — the times I have been I mean — I’ve 
always had a suspicion at the back of my mind that 


THE O’DEAS 


»7 


perhaps I wasn’t. They don’t sound reasonable to- 
gether, do they ? but they might both be true logic- 
ally. They used to teach us logic at school, but all I 
ever learned was to prove a cat had three tails. I 
suppose you can do that, great-grandchildren? You 
postulate — 

“No cat has two tails.” 

Agreed by the audience. 

“ One cat must have one tail more than no-cat.” 

Also agreed after deep thought. 

“ Therefore, since no-cat has two tails, one cat 
must have three tails.” 

I think they used to tell us that if things are con- 
tradictories only one can be true, and one must be 
true ; but if they are only contraries, both may be 
false. Or, to make a philosophical question of it, I 
may be applying categories to a subject that is be- 
yond categories, and so essentially falsifying love, 
if I try to make it subject to one or other answer. 

Don’t I sound clever ? That’s because I talk non- 
sense. No one can understand me. I’m so silly, Mar- 
joram says ; they get so bewildered they don’t know 
whether it’s me talking nonsense or themselves, but 
I argue it’s clever of me to be able to make clever 
people feel silly. Don’t you agree with me ? 

Sometimes I wish I weren’t so silly and frivolous. 
I’d like to be beautiful and cold, one of the sort of 
women who never say a word in novels but just look 
disdainful : they never seem to try to amuse any one 
else, but every one always feels it his duty to amuse 
them. Edith Carson is like that. She walks about 


i8 


TIME O' DAY 


like an icicle and her smile chills you to the bone, 
but nobody bothers about her much at parties — she's 
too hard to talk to, the men say. I wonder if there 
really are any women who won’t bother to be agree- 
able who are fascinating ? If I don’t talk I’m dull, I 
know, and I’d hate men to think me dull. 

I seem to be talking a lot about men, but the fact 
is I’m just beginning to think about them seriously. 
Of course I’ve always had a lot to do with them, 
even before I put my hair up, but till now all I’ve 
wanted was fun. I liked men making love to me, 
but I never wanted it to be serious, and I certainly 
never never wanted to get married. I suppose I’d 
never properly grown into a woman. Marjoram 
says I’m younger in some ways than Ada, and she is 
only eighteen. But marriage to me always seemed 
something away in the distance ever so far off. I 
knew I’d have to do it some day, but I never felt 
there was any hurry. I’ve always found life dread- 
fully dull if for a week or so I wasn’t in love with 
somebody or somebody wasn’t in love with me, 
either does ; but marriage — that always seemed for 
other people. But now 

I’ve got to get married soon, and that’s a fact. In 
a way I even want to. It’d be frightfully nice to have 
some one always bothering about you, wouldn’t it ? 
Some one you could always depend on to take you 
everywhere and think everything you do quite right. 
Nobody ever thinks anything I do right at home. 
I’m always in hot water for something. And it would 
be jolly always to come first to some one, and I should 


THE O’DEAS 


19 


like to have a house of my own, where I could do ex- 
actly as I liked and not have to make my goings 
and comings suit a dozen other people, and even if 
I did do anything dreadful there’d be only one to 
jump on me, not eight as at home. And it would be 
nice, too, to feel you were all the world to some one, 
not only for a month or two, but for good. 

ril tell you another reason why Fd like to. I 
couldn’t tell any one really, but somehow in writing 
one can think aloud to oneself. Fd like a baby. I 
would. Fd just love one. I never used to think I 
would a bit. I thought they were the stupidest little 
nuisances one had to put up with. I used to suppose 
Fd have to have my share, like other people, but I 
always hoped it wouldn’t be for several years after I 
married. But now at times Fd simply love to have 
one at once. Don’t be shocked, you know what I 
mean ; but all the same I do think it’s such a pity 
one has to be married first, for there isn’t a man I 
know Fd really like as a husband, but Fd give any- 
thing for a baby like Maida Murray’s. 

She used to live next door to us, too, on the other 
side. Her people do still, and she only lives a few 
streets away now she’s married, and Fm always 
there; and her baby — I can’t describe him — he’s 
wonderful. He’s just eleven weeks old, and I adored 
him from the first moment I set eyes on his black 
mop and chinky yellow-red face. Of course his 
hideous color soon wore off, with his hair, and now 
he’s a blue-eyed, fair, pink and white, good-tempered 
angel, and he loves me to nurse him. Fm sure he 


20 


TIME DAY 


knows me, Maida thinks he does too ; and I’m actu- 
ally learning to knit so that I can make him some 
socks. 

His name’s Peter john. 

Oh, well, anyway I’ll have to marry soon, even if 
I don’t find a man I like, for twenty-two is getting 
pretty old when you’ve got three younger sisters 
who are always telling you to hurry up and get off 
the family’s hands to give them a chance. Of course 
Marjoram is older than I and she ought to go first, 
and I suppose she will. I’m expecting her to get 
engaged any day now, although she won’t tell me 
anything ; she’s a secretive old thing, is Marje, she 
listens to all my chatter, but she never confides in 
me in her turn. But there’s a man been coming 
here for quite a while now ; his name’s Peter Mac- 
Farlane, and he’s a very nice fellow too. He’s noth- 
ing frightfully particular in the way of a catch, but 
he’s by no means undesirable, and didn’t somebody 
once say it was no mean happiness to be seated in 
the mean ? That’s what I tell Marje anyway ; I 
barrack hard for Peter MacFarlane. 

You know Marje is a queer sort of girl ; she isn’t 
a bit like the rest of us, except Ada a little. She 
snubs people awfully at times, and I tell her she’d 
make a horrible old maid — she’d be the snappy sort. 
I think she’ll have Peter. Any one can see he’s 
fond of her, and I’ve told her more than once that 
if she doesn’t mean to have him she ought to stop 
his coming. She’s only shrugged her shoulders 
and said nothing, so I think she means to. I don’t 


THE O^DEAS 


21 


know how she can, in a way, although Fm always 
telling her what a brick I think him. I couldn't 
marry him myself. But I honestly think he'll suit 
Marje pretty well ; she's so matter of fact — and so is 
he, even about her. 

Anyway, it's her funeral, and you know — though 
of course I wouldn't dream of saying it to Marje — 
she mayn't get another chance. She's so frank and 
snappy and blunt that I don’t think many fellows 
would want to marry her, though they all like her 
tremendously. I suppose it's just the way you're 
built. Marje has friends and I have sweethearts, ex- 
cept Gordon. 

Still I shouldn't be surprised if she never marries 
at all — there's no real need for her to ; she can 
always earn her own living if mother makes it too 
nasty for her at home. Marje is a nurse ; she's been 
through all her training, but she's not nursing now 
because she had typhoid some while ago, and the 
doctors said she must come home and take a rest. 
But she can't bear doing nothing, so at present she 
goes every other day to some sort of institution — 
I forget its name — that goes about visiting poor 
women and teaching them to cook simple invalid 
dishes and how to make babies' food properly, and 
nursing them for nothing. They do just splendid 
work, and Marje says you wouldn't believe how 
incredibly ignorant some of the poorer women are 
of the simplest rules of health. 

She loves the work, but I think she'd like to marry 
some day all the same — every woman would. It's 


22 


TIME O’ DAY 


all right while you’re young, but when you’re old it's 
so rottenly lonely ; there isn’t much in life if you can't 
take a real absorbing interest in some human being. 
When you’re young the most absorbing person in 
the world is yourself and the things that are going 
to happen to you. But after they’ve happened, and 
there’s nothing special to look forward to, life must 
be very grey unless you can start looking forward 
again in your children, or so it always seems to me 
anyway ; and Marje adores children — always has. 

Of course it’s just as lonely for an old bachelor 
too, but then if he begins to feel it he can always 
get some woman to marry him up to almost any 
age ; but once a woman has lost her youth no man 
will marry her unless for her money. I suppose 
there are exceptions, but I mean as a general rule, 
so unless a woman is very charming indeed she can’t 
afford to go on refusing men indefinitely, just on 
the chance of Mr. Right turning up, because he 
might never come at all. I guess most women 
marry Mr. Nearly Right. And I suppose Marje will 
have to, like the rest — and me too. I wonder ! 

Heigho ! well, I wish Prince Charming would hurry 
up if he’s going to come, but I don’t believe he often 
does in real life. I think I’ll go and see Maida and 
my own sweet Peterjohn. I do wish you could see 
him, great-grandchildren, but I dare say he’ll be a 
grandpapa by the time you hear of him, but he has 
the cutest smile that shows his dear gummy mouth. 
I’m getting so clever at managing him ; Maida says 
I’m smarter than she. Neither of us knew anything 


THE O’DEAS 


23 


about babies before hers came, and she and I have 
always been such pals, from the time we used to sit in 
school together, that I feel as if he were at least 
half mine. We’re learning all his pet likes and dis- 
likes together ; he loves lying on his stomach across 
your knees or shoulder, and he simply yells if you 
lay him on his back bathing him, and I let him suck 
my finger sugared when he has the hiccoughs. Oh, 
I think it’s just fascinating learning about babies ! I 
can’t imagine how I used to find them uninteresting. 
Perhaps it makes a difference his being Maida’s, but 
Jack — that’s her husband — ^just roars at me. 

Well, I must stop for to-day. I’m going out to 
the Lawrances’ to dinner. Dolly wants me to meet 
her brother ; he’s a doctor, I think his name’s Philip, 
and he’s just back from Europe. 

I wonder what you think of your great-grand- 
mother now, great-grandchildren — oh. I’m going to 
call you G.G.C., the other’s too long to write every 
time. 

Of course you may never see this. I dare say it 
will be lost long before your time, or perhaps I shall 
tear it up. 

Still, it’s a bit of a lark doing it. 


CHAPTER II 


THYME MEETS BOB GALE 

I’M horribly tired and feeling cross, too, so I’ve 
decided to write a bit and see if it will calm me 
down. I’ve been busy all day ; mother had several 
people in to lunch, and that always means extra 
work for all of us, especially me, as I’m the cooking 
genius of the family. I don’t know whether you’ve 
got the impression, because we go out a lot and 
entertain, that we’re a family of useless ornaments ; 
we’re not, I can assure you — you’re barking up the 
wrong tree entirely. We keep only a cook and one 
housemaid now ; before Fay left school we used to 
have two, but neither mother nor dad believes in 
girls having nothing to do but amuse themselves. 
He says a lot of useless women who don’t know how 
to fill in their time are a curse to themselves and 
every one else. 

I never do any housework, I just hate it, the mere 
sight of a duster gives me dusterics (I invented that 
word), but I do all the fancy cooking, nearly. Biddy 
makes plain cake and puddings for ordinary days, 
but I make all the entrees and mayonnaise and 
sweets and fancy things. I really like it ; but some- 
times, when we have folk to lunch every day of the 
week, like this one, I get a bit tired. Mother’s ter- 


THYME MEETS BOB GALE 


25 


ribly fond of entertaining — it^s all right for her, she 
doesn^t have any of the work to do, only the flowers, 
and she’ll never let any one else touch that part 
because she has just wonderful taste, every one 
says so. 

I suppose in a way she has to, as she says, for 
dad’s sake. Parliamentary men have to keep in with 
everybody, and it’s even worse now dad’s in the 
Federal and not the State Parliament. It was so 
funny to-day ; he came home in a tearing rage — oh, 
just ramping and roaring — he stood in the drawing- 
room and stormed to us like a stump orator. It’s a 
nuisance having a public man for a papa ; he always 
regards us less as a family than an audience. He 
gets so mad with me at times because, in the middle 
of his most excited speeches (rehearsals), I giggle. I 
never mean to, I know it’s rude, but I will see the 
funny side of it in a flash and the giggle’s out before 
I can stop it. One good thing about it is he doesn’t 
mind now if I’m absent from the rehearsals. So I 
generally am, except when I feel blue and want to 
be amused. 

But I haven’t told you yet what made him mad, 
have I ? The Speaker ordered him out of the House. 
Dad was savage ; he hadn’t done anything, he said. 
I dare say he hadn’t really ; but still those members 
do slang each other dreadfully, if the reporters report 
truly. But we all sympathized with dad, till Betty 
said flippantly : 

“ Never mind, dad, pretty well every one else but 
you has been turned out before, so now you’re in a 


26 TIME DAY 

majority again, and all politicians love majorities ; so 
cheer up 1 ” 

Dad is only Opposition now, for the Labor Party 
is in power, and we all just gasped at her speech, 
but dad only laughed ; he’ll take anything from Betty. 
He and mother both adore her; I’m bothered if I can 
see why — she’s a perfect little imp. I dare say we’re 
all jealous of her, for she’s been allowed to do as she 
liked from a baby ; we others were brought up pretty 
strictly, we were a bit scared of mother and dad, but 
Betty never was. I believe she cheeked them from 
the minute she was born, and they actually seem to 
like it. Even when she was only a tiny kid, and dad 
would come home tired from a Par. debate, while 
we others kept discreetly in the background, Betty 
would march up, fling herself on his knees, poke him j 
in his expanding waistcoat, and demand a penny. j 

And she always got it. j 

But if we others tried it we were generally re- ‘ 
minded we had weekly pocket-money. You can't do 
anything with her now. She’s always taking our pet ! 
pocket-handkerchiefs, and yesterday, if you please, I 
found her strolling round the garden in my satin 
bedroom slippers. My word I boxed her ears — I was 
mad — but I got into a fearful row with mother. We 
scarcely ever dare touch her, for she sets the powers 
that be at us, and we’re told we’re brutal to the poor 
child, and then she gets some new style of outrageous 
spoiling. But that’s enough of Betty for this time, 
except that of course she’s to have a pair of satin 
slippers for herself to-morrow. Spoiled brat ! 


THYME MEETS BOB GALE 


27 


Have I said I went to the Lawrances' to dinner 
last Friday? I enjoyed it so much. It was really a 
kind of party ; there were about a dozen there. The 
famed Philip is too much like a marble statue for my 
taste. I dare say he’s awfully clever — he looks it — 
but I prefer something a little more human. He’s 
perfectly uncanny ; his hands were like ice, and it 
was a hot night too. He’s the sort that if his clothes 
got up and walked about by themselves you wouldn’t 
miss much, though I dare say his patients would. I 
oughtn’t to speak about him like that, for I believe 
he’s terribly learned, and he was a Rhodes scholar 
and all sorts of things. He was very nice to me too; 
he talked to me a lot, but he’s most irritatingly Eng- 
lish. I suppose it’s hard not to get their accent and 
manners when you live so many years there, but it 
always strikes me as affectation. Of course I know 
English people reckon we have a cockney twang, 
but as we consider them jammy I suppose things 
are equal. 

After dinner we went out on the lawn. It was 
glorious outside ; the sky was that smudgy night-blue 
that makes the stars look like pale holes in it, and 
the moon was tearing down to the west with Venus 
tagging alongside. The air had that tepid feel that 
makes everything too much bother. And I met 
rather a nice man there too ; they started playing 
guessing games, and he and I were sent out while 
the others arranged the word. Dolly said we weren’t 
going to play anything that meant getting out of 
our chairs. 


28 


TIME O’ DAY 


He’s really awfully nice. His name’s Bob Gale. 
I had hardly noticed him before. He’s nothing to 
look at, but, now I come to think of it, I have heard 
of him. They say Dolly’s trying to run him lately, 
and he sat next to her at dinner. That will account 
for her being so frigid when she said good-bye to 
me ; I couldn’t make it out at the time. Why, yes, 
I suppose she would be rather annoyed, for we were 
together all evening after that. It wasn’t anything 
out of the way in obviousness, but he just managed 
to get next to me every time. I was rather pleased ; 
there wasn’t any one else there I cared much about, 
and he talked interestingly. He seems to know a 
lot about cricket. I forgot to ask him what team he 
plays on. 

I was rather amused when I came in from the lawn. 
I must tell you about it. He was sitting down, so I 
went to get a chair the opposite side of the room. It 
was a heavy old chair, and as I tried to pull it where 
I wanted to sit, near Lottie Hyles, he was beside me 
in a flash. With an “ Allow me^” he picked it up 
and deposited it beside another empty one. I 
thanked him and sat down, and he prepared to sit 
beside me, when Dolly dropped into it. I thought 
it was an accident at the time, but I see now she did 
it to try and drive him away from me. We caught 
each other’s eye, and I laughed ; I couldn’t help it. 
But he wasn’t beaten as easily as that. He just got 
another chair from somewhere and put it down the 
other side of me, and talked till we had to go home. 
He would have taken me home, but dad sent the 


THYME MEETS BOB GALE 


29 


motor for me. Smith had to be up late anyway to 
bring dad home from the House, as they were hav- 
ing a late sitting. He doesn’t like too many late 
nights — Smith, I mean — and as he’s the least thiev- 
ing chauffeur we’ve had for years, dad doesn’t want 
to lose him. Isn’t it awful the way some of them 
run you up bills for things you’re certain you could 
never have had ? Labor’s awful to manage, isn’t it ? 
I tell dad if he wants to do any good for himself he’d 
better change sides and go over to the Labor Party. 
He wouldn’t be the first turncoat in Australia by a 
long chalk. 

I’d like to find out more about that Gale man. 
I’ve half a mind to ask Dolly round to lunch and see 
if I can make her talk about him. It oughtn’t to be 
hard ; Dolly’s an awful chatterbox — still. I’m sure if 
she thought I really wanted to know, wild horses 
couldn’t drag any information out of her. Of course 
I don’t want to know particularly, but he was rather 
nice and said he hoped to see me again. He won’t 
if Dolly has anything to do with it. I’m sure. 

There’s such a lovely view from my window while 
I’m writing this — the sky is like a big primrose scarf 
flung round the shoulders of the trees. Well, I must 
stop chattering and clean myself up again. I do get 
tired of dressing and undressing. Gordon and Peter 
MacFarlane — I call him Petermac for short — are 
taking us to the Dandies at North Shore. I’d rather 
go to bed myself, but Marje won’t go if I don’t, and 
it’s my duty to help Petermac on in every possible 
way, don’t you think ? 


30 


TIME O’ DAY 


Besides, Gordon would be disappointed if I didn’t. 
It was my birthday last week, and he gave me a 
dozen of the most glorious embroidered linen hankys. 
Now I must just rush into another frock. 

But I wonder if I will see him again. It’s funny 
how some people come into your life and stay and 
are friends, and others you just lose for good. It 
hardly seems worth while letting yourself like them. 


CHAPTER III 


NICER THAN A BROTHER 

I AM Staying for a few days with Maida Murray. 
Jack has had to go up-country on business, and 
Maida hates being alone with only the nurse-girl in 
the house. I love staying with her too ; we have 
such fun. She^s only the same age as I, although 
she^s married and has a Peterjohn, and she’s up to 
any mischief still. She’s not a bit like me to look at 
— she’s small and thin, almost skinny, and very dark, 
but such a dear ; we’ve always done things together. 
Of course we can’t go out quite as much now, for 
Jack doesn’t like racketing about to things like he 
did when they were engaged. He says he likes a 
peaceful life, and only married Maida so that he 
could have her company at home, instead of having 
to chase half over Sydney to get it ; and Peterjohn’s 
another tie now. But she asks everybody I want 
round when I’m there and joins in any fun that’s 
going. 

Gordon’s been here several times. I see him 
almost every day now, some time or other ; it’s just 
like having a brother nicer than the real thing, for 
Fred is always out with other people's sisters, and 
Tam, as I told you, I think, is managing Willibindi. 
Really, I don’t know why Gordon should be so nice 


TIME O’ DAY 


32 

to me, for he is so clever and Fm the most frivolous 
idiot on earth. But he talks such serious things to 
me, just as if I were as brainy as himself, and I think 
it’s darling of him. Socialism and Bernard Shaw 
(he lent me all his plays) and religion and politics 
and shares — you’d hardly know Thyme O’Dea with 
Gordon. I can’t always understand him, but I do 
always admire him. 

He’s so big too. I just adore big men. He could 
tuck Mr. Gale under one arm — not that Mr. Gale is 
little, really, but Gordon is so big. He has dark, 
solemn eyes, and he has to wear glasses most of the 
time, which spoils his face, but he has the most 
beautiful mouth I’ve ever seen on a man — when 
he smiles it’s lovely. I told him so once, and it’s 
the only time I can remember his being really 
vexed with me. He told me not to be a little fool. 
I was just furious for a minute ; then, just for mis- 
chief, I bent over and kissed the thin patch on the 
top of his head, and said, Diddums,” and then he 
had to laugh. Now and again when I feel particu- 
larly good-natured I give him a lop-sided pat or 
half a hug, he’s just like my brother, you see, we’ve 
lived next door to each other since I was a flapper, 
but he never touches me. I like him because of 
that, and it’s all the nicer of him not to when I treat 
him so carelessly. The first thing I can remember 
about him is that soon after we came I smashed 
something or other of his which he valued, and he 
called me a meddling tortoise-shell cat. I retorted 
that he was an ugly hump-shouldered stew. 


NICER THAN A BROTHER 


33 


That was the cementing of our friendship. 

He is a bit round-shouldered still, and that annoys 
me dreadfully. I’m always telling him to sit up ; it 
looks dreadful with his height. The funny thing is 
he’s ashamed of his size, he hates being so tall ; he 
says he feels downright ridiculous going out with 
me, when I don’t come near his shoulder and he has 
to bend over to speak to me. I should think the 
only thing a man could mind is being small with a 
big girl ; somehow one feels one wants to look up 
to a man. I wish Mr. Gale was bigger, but still I’ve 
found out one exciting thing about him ; just imag- 
ine, great-grandchildren, he’s an interstate cricketer ! 
I wondered why his face was vaguely familiar, but I 
couldn’t place it at all. Of course I’ve seen it lots 
of times in the newspapers in groups ; I remember 
seeing him play last year — he did the hat trick. I 
can’t understand my not recognizing him at once. I 
just love men who do things. I wish Gordon would 
take to sport, even if it was only tennis ; he’d be 
splendid at that, he has such a tremendous reach he 
could stand on the back line and make them bounce 
right above the others’ heads. But he won’t ; he 
prefers reading his silly old Nietzches and Blatch- 
fords, and he makes me perfectly cross. 

Of course he can be energetic if he chooses. He 
cut Maida’s lawn for her last night ; the man who 
usually does it hasn’t turned up for a fortnight, so 
the look of the place is entirely dependent on Jack’s 
exertions. He has a happy little knack of doing 
this every now and again, generally in the hottest 


34 


TIME DAY 


weather, but Maida’s afraid to sack him for fear she 
won’t get anybody at all ; men by the day are 
almost rarities. She’s been having a terrible lot of 
trouble with washerwomen too lately. You know 
they won’t come out to Rose Bay, even though you 
pay their fares ; they say it takes so long to arrive 
they have to get up too early. Why, poor Maida 
engaged one wretched woman three separate times, 
and each time she slipped her up. Maida and I had 
to turn to and wash some of Peterjohn’s things our- 
selves — you should see me with suds all over my 
arms, dears. 

The night before last I made Gordon scrub out 
the nursery. You’d have screamed to see him ; he 
had a huge apron on, and his shirt-sleeves rolled 
up, and a pair of Jack’s old slippers on, and his old 
glass specs shook as he scrubbed away seriously — I 
nearly dropped Peterjohn with laughing, and Maida 
had to laugh too, though she was wild with me for 
suggesting it. 

But Maida had said she would have to do it her- 
self next day, for the charwoman hadn’t turned up 
again, and she couldn’t have Peterjohn sleeping in 
a dirty room, and she was afraid to ask the nurse to 
do it for fear she’d give notice, and in this hot 
weather to be without any help at all would be no 
joke, so I said to Gordon, who was lounging on the 
veranda with us, “ Oh, you’ll scrub it out for her, 
won’t you, Gordon?” I really didn’t think he 
would, but he’s tremendously good-natured, and 
asked straightway for a bucket of water. 


NICER THAN A BROTHER 3^ 

Maida protested like anything, but when Gordon 
does get an idea in his head — although it takes 
years to get one in, I often tell him — he^s as obstinate 
as a bob-tailed lizard, and he wore her down by 
calmly remarking that if a little bit of a thing like 
her could contemplate the job, it wouldn’t hurt a 
fellow his size. And he did it too, scrubbing-brush, 
apron and all. And I think it was just darling of 
him, don’t you ? That’s Gordon all over, he hasn’t 
a bit of false pride, he’d do anything to help a friend 
without ever worrying his head as to whether it 
was beneath his dignity or not. He looked such a 
funny old giant too, swilling the water about, with 
the veins standing up on his arms as he scrubbed. 

I think the play of a man’s muscles is fascinating, 
don’t you? The less clothes a man has on the 
better; they always look their best in rowing or 
football clothes. Gordon says it’s the remnant of 
the primitive adoration of mere brawn that existed 
when strength was the only asset and the aim of 
every belle was to entrap the biggest man of the 
tribe. But with regard to women he says hidden 
beauties simply top the score of attractiveness. 
Man’s being a jealous animal is the reason for his 
eternal scoffs and jokes at the decolletk evening 
dress. He hasn’t the slightest objection to seeing 
as much of her charms as a woman cares to dis- 
play; what stultifies his gratitude is that other 
men are equally favored. The average taunt of 
indecency might easily be translated jealousy. 
Men are a thousand times more jealous than 


TIME DAY 


36 

women ; their jealousy is of a different brand. 
Woman is jealous of the beloved caring more for 
others than for her ; man is jealous of the whole 
world caring at all for the beloved — her inclinations 
quite apart. He says you can’t expect a man to 
come down to being even first fiddle after having 
been the whole orchestra. 

Gordon has awfully funny ideas, don’t you think ? 
He says he knows too much about women, and that’s 
why he’ll never marry. He doesn’t think girls like 
him, and you know it’s so absurd, because they do, 
or they’d like to like him if he’d let them. Most of 
them are a bit scared of him, I think, and I know 
some are quite envious of me knowing him so well, 
for he’s a fine man to look at on the whole, though 
you couldn’t call him good-looking. But I do wish 
he wouldn’t insist on wearing tan boots with a navy 
suit ; he looks awful. He hasn’t an atom of taste as 
far as dress goes, and he’s such an obstinate wretch 
he won’t take advice ; he simply doesn’t care how 
he looks. I do like a man who carries himself well | 
and dresses well, don’t you ? 

Mr. Gale does, you know ; he looks just the pink | 
of perfection in any clothes. I saw him in the street | 
the other day talking to a very pretty girl ; I don’t | 
know who she was, and he didn’t see me. Wasn’t I 
it disappointing ? I haven’t seen him sinc^. It was 
Dolly told me about his being R. H. Gale, the i 
cricketer. Of course I’ve seen his name in print, 
over and over. She gave me to understand he is 
her property. 


NICER THAN A BROTHER 


37 


Is he, Miss Dolly ? We’ll see ! 

That girl’s an out and out cat ; I never met a real 
specimen before. They’re having another party next 
week, a peanut hunt in the garden. I wonder if he 
will be there, but of course I didn’t dare ask Dolly. 

There, I’ve used quite enough of Maida’s note- 
paper, and I hear my darling Peterjohn yelling for 
his Thyme. I must fly and comfort the rascal ; he 
ought to be asleep too. If he only realized the depths 
of my devotion to him he’d be too grateful to yell. 
I’ve pricked my fingers black to-day trying to sew 
lace on a petticoat for him ; I hate sewing by hand, 
you get so used to a machine. 

The yells are getting deafening, and Maida is busy 
dishing up the dinner. Jack will be in presently ; 
he gets back to-night, and I’m going home. 

That’s enough for to-day. 


CHAPTER IV 


MARJE AND PETERMAC 

I FEEL quite exhausted. I’ve been playing goose- 
berry to Petermac and Marje ; it’s a trying situation. 
We had all arranged to go to the pictures, and at 
the last minute Gordon couldn’t go — some old re- 
porting stuff — and to my disgust I had to make a 
third, for it was too late to get any one else, and 
Marje wouldn’t go without me ; it’s funny the way 
she always dodges being alone with Petermac now. 
I sometimes think she doesn’t want him to propose 
at all. I know she won’t dare refuse him, at least I 
don’t think she will, but I believe she’s trying to put 
off the evil day. I don’t know whether she doesn’t 
like him or whether she’s just a bit scared of getting 
married at all. I can’t think there’s any one else 
she can be fond of, although once, when I was giving 
her advice about Petermac, she said to me, with a 
funny smile, ** So if you can’t have the man you like 
you must like the man you can have — that’s your 
idea, eh ? ” 

She’s worse than I am for bluntness at times. 

If I were Petermac I’d have given up long ago, 
but he’s as obstinate as she ; that’s why I think he’d 
be just the husband for her. Nothing disconcerts 
him. You know she bribes the triplets to come into 


MARJE AND PETERMAC 


39 

the room if she and Petermac happen to be left 
alone. So the other night Fay picked up her sewing 
and opened the door ; we happened to be in the 
passage, and we nearly collapsed when, just as she 
set foot inside, Petermac said gently, “ Close the 
door behind you when you go out, will you. Fay ? ” 

Fay just stared at him for a minute, and then 
joined Betty and Ada and me, who were rolling 
round the passage nearly choking with laughter. 
Fay said she’d never, never go into the room again 
no matter what Marje offered her. She was as mad 
as hops at first, but she had to laugh too in a minute. 
I think it was real neat of Petermac, don’t you? I 
don’t know how Marje will protect herself now that 
the triplets have gone on strike. I’m afraid she 
won’t be able to avert the crisis much longer. I can 
read it in Petermac’ s eye. 

I could murder that little beast of a Betty, she and 
I are always fighting, and yesterday, if you please, 
she found some letters of Max’s in one of my drawers, 
and she has been quoting slabs of them at me ever 
since. I could kill her. In front of a drawing-room 
full of people to-day she struck a sentimental pose in 
front of me and said loudly, “ You’re the sweetest 
girl, born or unborn. I go to dream of you. Good- 
night ! ” Of course everybody laughed, and she ex- 
plained in her horribly innocent way that she saw 
it in a letter of Thyme’s. I wished the floor would 
open and swallow me. She’s rather young and 
childish-looking for her age, with short dark curls all 
over her head, and that’s why people excuse half the 


40 


TIME DAY 


outrageous things she does. And on top of that she 
went and told Gordon all about it. Not that he 
listened, but he couldn’t help hearing a lot before he 
could get her out of the room, and then she nearly 
kicked him black and blue. 

She’s a little cat, but mother can’t see a fault in 
her ; she puts it all down to Betty’s high spirits. I’d 
high spirit her if mother went away for a month. 
She has gone to a dinner at Government House to- 
night ; she looked just lovely, far too young to be the 
mother of all of us, she’s hardly got a wrinkle, and 
we’ll none of us ever be as lovely as she, unless per- 
haps Fay. But I’m always afraid of her, she seems 
like a statue. I can never remember her any other 
way. She never played with us or petted us as 
kiddies, the old gins round the place had more to do 
with our bringing up than she, and of course we had 
governesses. We’re all jolly and laughter-loving 
like dad. Betty is like mother in her ways. I don’t 
believe she cares for anybody. 

But I think it was the limit to tell Gordon. His 
own brother, too — even fourteen ought to have more 
decency than that. I told dad of her, and he actually 
gave her a good talking-to, but I don’t suppose it 
will do her much good. 

Oh ! I never told you I ran into Mr. Gale in the 
street the other day. I was just strolling down Pitt 
Street to my tram after physical culture when we 
nearly walked into each other ; we both stopped the 
same second, and he looked so pleased to see me. 
He coaxed me to go and have a cup of tea with him. 


MARJE AND PETERMAC 


4 » 


so we just dashed into the Civil Service, as we were 
opposite, although I knew I shouldn't have. It made 
me late for dinner and mother was annoyed. 

We had such a nice talk, but I guess Dolly will be 
mad. She’s sure to hear of it ; we saw nearly every 
one we knew, that’s the worst of the Civil Service at 
half-past four. He’s going to Dolly’s party ; it 
came out casually somehow. I think I mentioned I 
was going, and he said, ‘‘ So am I.” He saw me 
down to my car. He has such nice eyes — they’re 
reddy-brown ; his hair’s rather red too, but somehow 
it’s nice on him. I told him I knew now he was the 
cricketer, and he just laughed and said, Please 
don’t,” in such a pleasant way, not deprecating or 
mock-modest style, but just in a careless way, as if 
it honestly didn’t matter much at that minute. I 
said : 

” Don’t be so silly. Why, I just adore real crick- 
eters. I wish I had a brother good at it.” 

He said back mischievously, ** Perhaps I may be 
grateful to my reputation yet then.” 

He has very talking eyes. 

I’m glad he’s going to the party. 

But I’m rather worried about Max. I wish he 
wouldn’t write so regularly. Have you any corre- 
spondents who worry you, G.G.C. ? Still, I don’t see 
why I should worry. He’s not very sentimental ; I 
told him if he was I wouldn’t write any more. I 
generally give his letters to Marjoram ; she likes to 
read them. She’s very fond of Max — indeed we all 
are ; we like all the Hastes imnaensely. Mr. Haste 


TIME O’ DAY 


42 

used to be very friendly with dad before he died ; 
they were in the Senate together. 

Look, you shall judge for yourselves. This is 
Max’s last letter, barring the front page, which I’ve 
lost : 

“ You want to know how I’m getting on, you say” 
(I did ask him that to stop his writing more rub- 
bish). “ Well, I’m roaming the country in a dear little 
sulky which I nearly lost yesterday crossing a creek. 
The ford was a bit flooded, but I got across safely. 
However, an old country couple, following just be- 
hind, were not quite so lucky ; they got off the track, 
and, though they stuck their number nines manfully 
up on the dashboard, the water rushed in and swept 
away gardens of cabbages and bushels of eggs. Of 
course I had to go to the rescue. 

‘‘ I camp out if I’m too far from a township at 
sundown. My mattress is a black boy broken into 
tiny pieces in a sack, another sack with chaff in it 
makes a pillow, and, with a rug or two, there you are. 
I wouldn’t care to call the Queen my aunt if I were 
only a bit warmer. I’ll give you my average routine. 

“ Rise, shave, dress, make up fire, get out tucker- 
box, boil eggs or open a tin of sardines or meat, 
make coffee, spread the table-cloth (another sack) 
and attack the real part of the business. Fold up 
the tent, pack the tucker-box, and hunt for the 
horses ; they are to be found hobbled somewhere 
within a mile of camp, you guess the direction or 
toss up a penny. Harness them, and drive, drive, 
drive to the — to the next stopping-place. 


MARJE AND PETERMAC 


43 

** Of course if you’re lucky you’ll get bogged just 
as you have picked out in your mind’s eye a nice 
spot to camp across the gully. The horses get 
stuck and finally lie down, as horses do, with an air 
of renouncing further responsibility. Unharness 
them, whip them till they flounder out, and then 
with a little speech suitable to the occasion — gen- 
erally short and lurid — you pick your way back to 
the buggy and carry out every single article it con- 
tains to dry land. Then you try to dig out the 
wheels with a stick ; at the critical moment the stick 
breaks, so all you have to do is — get another. Put 
stones underneath the wheels, lengthen the traces 
with rope, and set the horses pulling on dry land 
while you pant and push behind. By this time it 
will be quite dark, so after lighting a fire you take a 
billy and matches and hunt for water. If you can’t 
find a dam or soak, you must take creek water — 
tadpoles, mosquitoes and all. Then you go to sleep 
and (if you’re me) dream of a little girl with blue, 
blue eyes, blue as the rings sunlight makes on your 
toes through the water when you’re bathing. 

** Give my love to the triplets and your father. Is 
old Gordon well ? Yours with love. — M ax.” 

He writes rather a nice letter, doesn’t he ? But 
Marjoram says I ought not to let him go on writing 
when I don’t care. I don’t see what it matters to 
her ; I got quite cross yesterday, and said so. I 
don’t interfere with her and Petermac. What has 
Max to do with her ? She only looked at me fun- 
nily and went out. 


44 


TIME DAY 


But I don’t see why she need be nasty. I can’t 
write and tell him I won’t write any more because 1 
think he’s falling in love with me, can I ? He’s 
never exactly said he was, not in so many words. 
Besides, it would hurt him dreadfully. He expects 
to get a holiday some time this year, and I can ex- 
plain things then, can’t I ? It’ll be easier to say. 
And, you know, when he’s away up-country like that, 
so much alone, he might get melancholy, mightn’t 
he ? And suppose he went and committed suicide, I 
should never forgive myself, and his mother wouldn’t 
either. Men do things like that, too, when there’s 
something preying on their minds and they’re alone 
a lot. 

I think Marje is quite unreasonable. I’m only try- 
ing to be nice to everybody, but you never get any 
gratitude. 

Mrs. Haste is aggravating too. She worships 
Max. I don’t think he’s said anything about it to 
her, but all the same she seems to consider we’re 
demi-semi-engaged, and I do get angry with her at 
times — the things she says 1 Nothing, of course, 
that I can lay hold of. And Gordon has the wicked- 
est smile in the corner of his spectacles while she’s 
talking. He’s a wicked tease. It’s so funny, she 
doesn’t like me and Gordon being friends ; I believe 
she’s afraid he’ll cut out her darling Max. 

Good-bye. I must mend a tear in my chiffon dress. 
I want to wear it at the party to-morrow. One 
blessing about chiffon is it doesn’t show holes, 
though, as Gordon said when he saw me in it, it 


MARJE AND PETERMAC 


45 


shows pretty well everything else. But he’s always 
rude, and it’s my favoritest frock. He’s not going to 
the party. He scarcely ever will go to Lawrances’ ; 
he dislikes Dolly, who returns the compliment. It’s 
a wonder he doesn’t like her, for she’s very pretty in 
a dolly way, and Gordon worships prettiness. He’s 
got a real sentimental streak in him, only he hides it 
well, but he says she’s unforgivably silly. He says 
you don’t want brains in a woman, but you do com- 
mon sense. 


CHAPTER V 


POOR IDA 

It’s a nasty cold day and I feel grumpy, yes, 
decidedly grumpy, G.G.C. I If I were only about 
forty ’years older, and any of you were born, you 
would be whispering to each other, ‘‘ Keep out of 
the old dragon’s way to-day, her liver’s out of order.” 

But, you see, I haven’t got a liver yet, so perhaps 
it’s indigestion or just feeling cold. No wonder 
northern peoples are phlegmatic and deliberate in 
disposition ; who could get up enthusiasm about 
anything when they’ve got the shivers ? Dad says I 
must have a rotten circulation, I feel the cold fright- 
fully. I love the heat. They make me take dozens 
of iron pills, but I don’t seem to get any warmer. 

I hate seeing a grey sky too, don’t you ? I don’t 
mind a blacky grey sky with a bad-tempered wind 
whooshing across it — that’s movement, and there’s 
always a thrill about mere movement — but this is a 
dull sky, like greasy cold pudding, and the very 
roses outside look depressed ; they know they are 
going to get all draggled and wet to-night. 

I think I’ll run in and see Ida Lester. I don’t 
believe I’ve mentioned her before, have I, G.G.C. ? 
Still, I can’t tell you the names of all my friends at 
one sitting. She lives the other side of us to the 


POOR IDA 


47 


; Hastes. She hasn’t been there long ; she and her 
husband have taken the house Maida’s people lived 
I in — they are letting it while they are away in 
Europe. Ida’s nice, but I don’t think I like her hus- 
band much. He’s big and fat and rather handsome, 
but he always reminds me of a bookmaker, not that 
I I ever met a bookmaker to talk to, but he’s like 
what I’ve always imagined they must be, and he 
wears a huge diamond on his little finger ; I hate 
I rings on a man. Perhaps I was thinking of her 
when I said that most marriages one actually meets 
don’t seem nearly ideal or like you read of in books. 
I don’t think he and Ida are very fond of each 
other ; she’s always out with other men, never with 
him, and they say he’s rather what we used to call 
at school a Wein, Weib und Gesanger” : not that 
we knew quite all it meant then, but we thought it 
sounded grown-up and frightfully knowing. 

But Ida never complains about him, so I suppose 
they get along as well as most. They have no chil- 
dren, but a younger brother of Mr. Lester’s lives with 
them. His name is Lance, he is very fond of Ida, 
and goes everywhere with her instead of her hus- 
band ; it’s rather lucky for her having him for garden 
parties and balls and things, although anyway I 
don’t suppose she’d be stranded, she’s the sort men 
go crazy over, she’s always got one or two tagging 
after her. I wonder Mr. Lester doesn’t object, but as 
far as I can see, on the rare occasions he is home, 
he’s civil enough. 

Besides, if my husband left me for other women. 


TIME DAY 


48 

rd behave exactly like Ida. I don’t blame her a 
mite. She’s young still and only wants fun ; I’m 
sure she’s straight, though mother once or twice 
lately has told me she’d rather I didn’t get too 
friendly with her. I wonder who has been putting 
mother against her, for she used to like her when 
she first came. We never knew her before that, but 
now she and I have become very friendly. I have 
the run of the house, and go in and out just as I used 
when Maida lived there. There’s a little gate down 
our side garden that leads into theirs, and I often 
slip in that way and straight up to her room without 
bothering the maids. 

Of course, Ida’s all right and a dear too, but I do 
think she goes a bit strong with that brother-in-law 
of hers at times. I don’t like him, and although she 
treats him like a real brother. I’m sure — it sounds an 
awful thing to say and perhaps I oughtn’t — but all 
the same I’m sure he’s rather in love with her ; I’ve 
seen him look at her when she wasn’t looking. But 
as long as she doesn’t care for him it’s right enough, 
isn’t it ? And, anyway, he’s not the only one. 

I wonder what it is about her, for she’s not so 
marvelously pretty — in fact she’s not as pretty as I, 
vanity quite apart — but I’m sure no man would go 
as dilly about me as they seem to do about Ida. Per- 
haps it’s partly because she’s married and I’m not. 
The fruit that’s supposed to be out of reach is gen- 
erally the most enticing ; and besides, a man who 
makes love to me has got to chance the responsibility 
of marrying me and taking me over for life, whereas 


POOR IDA 


49 

with Ida — unless, of course, her husband divorced 
her. I say, wouldn’t mother be shocked if she saw 
me writing things like that ! Maybe you will be too, 
if you’re granddaughters, but I don’t expect so ; by 
the time you are grown up I dare say women will 
really be allowed to say aloud what they think. I 
wonder if they ever will. 

You know it’s funny, but Maida doesn’t like Mrs. 
Lester either. She said to me only the other day : 

She’s a wrong ’un, Timmy, I’d bet anything. 
She’s a medlar, not an apple ; she looks just bonny 
on the outside, but you bite in and you’ll find she’s 
rotten right through. She’s sweet and charming and 
everything else, and she can be just anything she 
likes, but there’ll be a bust-up in that household some 
day, Timmy, and if you take my advice you won’t 
be mixed up in it. You’d look pretty, wouldn’t you, 
giving evidence in a nice savory divorce case ! ” 

We had quite an argument over it. Of course I 
think she’s quite wrong, but once Maida takes a dis- 
like to any one you might as well argue with a post, 
so I said no more. I believe Maida’s so set against 
her because she and Mr. Lester don’t get on. I’ve 
noticed people who are happily married are apt to 
be a bit hard on others who have somehow made a 
mistake in theirs. And she and Jack are terribly in 
love still ; he kissed her ankle to-day when we were 
lying on the lawn, and they’ve been married nearly 
two years. They don’t mind me a bit, you know. 
Jack likes me, he says he never counts me a visitor ; 
and yesterday, too, when Maida burst into the room 


50 


TIME DAY 


with me when he was brushing his hair in his shirt- 
sleeves, he just grinned cheerfully and said we made 
him feel as if he owned a harem. But Maida said 
he'd have given her beans if it had been any one 
but me. 

And then after, when Jack was playing with 
Peterjohn, they both looked so contented, and when 
she took him from Jack to put him to bed they both 
kissed the top of his head together and then each 
other across him. When I go there I feel like get- 
ting married next minute, but there aren't so many 
Jacks knocking round the world, Maida is convinced 
there's only the one . . . and there's lots like 

Mr. Lester. 

Poor Ida ! 


CHAPTER VI 


“THYME'S LATEST" 

Do you know I can't help thinking about that 
party ? It's perfectly ridiculous, but I can't help it. 
You'd think I was a recently emancipated flapper, 
but I'm really rather interested in Mr. Gale, and I 
never would have believed I could like a man with 
red hair before ; his hair is outright red, I must ad- 
mit, though when you're with him you feel at the 
back of your mind it must be the effect of the sun- 
light, and it’s really copper-colored. I can’t help 
thinking of him when he put me in the car that 
afternoon and stood for just a second with his hat 
off and the sun making his head positively blaze. 
Aren't women fools I We do drivel over the tiniest 
things. But he has such a nice way of shaking 
hands. It’s not a squeeze, of course, like some hor- 
rid men have — I think it's such cheek — but it very 
nearly is ; it seems to convey all a squeeze means 
without its impertinence. And his smile is the 
frankest and straightest I’ve ever met ; it looks at 
you and says, “ Ah, come now, be friends,” and 
you’ve got to. I wish he was bigger, that’s all. I 
think Gordon has got me used to big men, but some- 
how when I’m with him I simply never realize he's 
any size in particular at all. 

I can't make out why I went to tea with him 


5 ^ 


TIME O’ DAY 


though ; I don’t as a rule when I only know men so 
slightly, and I had met Gordon earlier and refused 
to go with him because I knew mother would be mad 
if I was late. We all hate vexing mother because 
she can say such horrible things. She never loses 
her temper or frowns, but she talks like acid, and it 
seems to mix up with everything you’re eating and 
choke you. Of course I didn’t tell why I was late ; 
I said I had been shopping. But Betty gave the 
show away. Dolly Lawrance told the triplets — she 
saw us herself as it happened, although we didn’t 
see her — and as she came home in the same tram 
with them, she gave them the news when they won- 
dered why I hadn’t caught it too. 

It was mean of her to do it in front of Betty. I 
don’t mind Ada and Fay so much, they are grown 
up enough now to have a fellow-feeling, but that 

kid The only thing I’ll say for her is she did 

not give him his proper name ; she refers to him as 
Mr. Storm or the Stormcloud, but she jokes about 
him every chance she gets, and even insisted on tell- 
ing Mrs. Haste about “Thyme’s latest.” Do you 
wonder I can never feel sisterly to the little imp? 
And Gordon too — after I had refused to go to tea 
with him, wasn’t it awful ! Mrs. Haste was shocked, 
I could see. She thinks I ought to pine away in a 
turret tower all by myself till her Max gets back. 
See if I ever have anything more to do with boys 
who have mothers ! What annoys me most is that 
she is a charming little old lady, and I hate her to 
disapprove of me. 


^^THYMFS LATEST 


53 

Drat that Betty ! Though Gordon only laughed, 
as I knew he would. He asked if this was the last 
or only the latest, and when I said “Neither,” 
crossly, he chuckled harder than ever and said my 
methods were rapid then. He and I went to Manly 
last night. It was such a glorious evening. I don^t 
care what any one says, Manly sometimes is the 
most glorious place on earth, even the harbor-side, 
with that dim pine walk, looks alluring ; but toward 
the ocean, when you climb up the Head and look 
down on the lights all along the walk, and out to 
sea, it is just calm and bigness. Oh ! 

But I’ve never seen it as beautiful as yesterday. 
The sea was like a mirror flecked with a soft purple 
tinge I have never seen on water before, and the sky 
was purple too. Such blendings of color, such 
nuances stretching from dark violet to palest grey, 
and the little boats rocking lazily on the long low 
swell, while the band in the distance crooned them 
to sleep. Not a breath of wind — even that seemed 
under the spell. Slowly it grew dark, and the lights 
along the esplanade grew brighter and made lines 
of quivering fire in the water. Out to sea a star 
seemed to rise from the middle of the blackness ; it 
was on a yacht, invisible, and everywhere was 
silence, dark and silence. Now and then a trail of 
phosphorescence slid along the water where an ad- 
venturous fish whisked up, that was all. 

And then the soft sucking sound of the water on 
the rocks below. I just caught hold of Gordon’s 
sleeve and listened. We had the lovers with us too, 


54 


TIME O' DAY 


or we shouldn’t have gone as far as that, but they 
were out of ear-shot. They seemed to be unusually 
silent — I wonder if Petermac has done the deed. 

I like the long walk back to the pine plantation 
too, with the sea complaining and splashing softly 
on your right, and on your left the mile or so of huge 
rock towering above you, with the tufts of grass and 
trees on its rough old face like ragged whiskers, and 
the seats in all the dusky corners, and the glimmers 
you see of light frocks, and of arms round waists — 
doesn’t it seem funny, G.G.C., things that would be 
the limit in bad taste anywhere else only provoke a 
sympathetic smile at the seaside ? — and I even like 
the wet shine of the water trickling down the rocks ; 
it was wetter than usual last night. Gordon had to 
lift me over some of the puddles. 

But I like going home on the ferry best of all. Do 
you think there can be anything in the world more 
beautiful than Sydney Harbor at night? There’s 
always such a fairy-land ish, lit-up-for-the-occasion 
look about it, don’t you think? I love the headlights 
on Cremorne, and the red and green guiding lamps, 
and the glitter of the ferry-boats to Neutral and 
Mosman, crossing each other like shining cater- 
pillars glowing like diamond brooches on the black 
water. And then Circular Quay, the centre of the 
whole big radiance, like the crux of a pantomime 
drop-scene, and the city for background, with ad- 
vertisements flashing out in electric signs now and 
again. 

1 can never get tired of looking at it. I often wish 


THYME’S LATEST^' 


55 


we lived on the other side of the harbor, just for the 
pleasure of having to cross it every time one wanted 
to go to town. Don’t laugh, great-grandchildren, 
but often I sit outside on the ferry and watch the 
quay sparkling until I just ache with the beauty of 
it all. I wonder if heaven will make one feel like 
that. I often think, too, it looks as if half the stars 
in the sky had dropped down to light up Sydney — 
dear, idle, happy-go-lucky Sydney I 

Gordon is an old idiot. We had to run for the 
ferry, for he would stop to look in a funny little candy 
shop that had the comicalest kind of sweet in it you 
ever saw, with a huge card printed : 

Hokey pokey winky wy, 

Give it to the girls to make them shy ; 

It sticks in your mouth and makes you jump 
To buy some more at a penny a lump.” 

Gordon said he would have bought me some, but he 
knew the quantity he could afford wouldn’t have any 
effect on me. Impertinent thing! Yet I like his 
cheek better than most men’s niceness. Gordon 
does interest me awfully. I’m never dull with him. 
Most people find it extraordinary the way we are 
always out together, for you must understand, if I 
haven’t already explained, he’s something out of the 
way in cleverness — he’s an A. M. and a B. Sc. and 
dear knows what else — and what he doesn’t know 
about Shakespeare, and Chaucer, and triangled 
parallelograms, and ellipses, and stratified rocks, 


TIME DAY 


56 

and animals’ insides, wouldn’t worry Pallas herself ; 
and me — well, everybody knows Thyme O’ Deal 

Most of them work it out that he’s in love with 
me — clever men generally marry fools — but it isn’t 
that a bit. We just somehow feel at home with each 
other. We don’t put on airs or our best mental 
clothes or manners in each other’s company ; we act 
as we feel, and in some queer way we fit — that’s the 
real explanation of friendship, I suppose. I tell him 
nearly everything I do, even about the men I’m in 
love with for the time, even some things I can hardly 
tell Maida, although I tell her everything too ; but a 
man is different, and I know heaps about him nobody 
else knows. You’d never dream it, but Gordon is 
really shy with most people ; some think he’s proud, 
and he isn’t a bit, though he can’t be bothered with 
everybody. When I scolded him and said that was 
conceit, he said it wasn’t — the people he doesn’t think 
worth while are probably worth while to some one 
else, and it’s better for them to go there and enjoy 
themselves than to bore and be bored politely with 
him. And if he doesn’t think any one worth his 
time, he never pretends ; that’s why lots hate him, 
Dolly for one, for he’s no more merciful to girls than 
men. 

And yet, you know, in a way he’s shy of women, 
though no one but me has ever guessed it, and at 
the same time he’s terribly fond of them. But when 
I taxed him with it, he said no man was consistent 
throughout. He simply adores pretty girls, just for 
their prettiness. Quite lately a flapper of about 


THYME’S LATEST 


57 


seventeen came to live opposite ; she was downright 
lovely, and Gordon used to watch her comings and 
goings. He simply lived on the sight of her, and 
yet when I offered to introduce him, he wouldn’t let 
me, and once when he met her out he wouldn’t say 
a word to her. Isn’t he queer ? But he explained 
that he only likes them the way he likes pictures ; 
pretty girls are so disappointing to meet, they rarely 
have two ideas in sequence. I asked him what about 
me, but he just laughed and said he’d known me so 
long the disillusion had lost its sting. 

I boxed his ears and then kissed the top of his 
thin patch. Isn’t he a rude old thing? He says, 
when I’ve been talking more than usual nonsense, 
that he reckons heaven must be a place populated 
by beautiful girls who never speak. 

Now I must go and get dressed for the party. I 
do hope it’s nice and I do — yes, I do hope Mr. Gale’s 
there ; it will be rotten if he isn’t. Gordon isn’t go- 
ing. I’m rather glad, because if he did I would have 
to talk to him, and I want to talk to the red-headed 
man. How humiliating if he prefers Dolly. But I 
don’t think he will. 

Anyway, I’ll soon know. 


CHAPTER VII 


BESIDE THE LAKE 

I DID enjoy the party, it was better than I thought 
it possibly could be, so of course you can guess Bob 
Gale was there. Of course I donT call him Bob to 
his face, but I think of him as that and it’s shorter 
to write — if you like a man you never think of him 
as Mister. 

And I had really thought it would be beastly 
when I went. Everything went wrong all day — 
some days are like that, aren’t they ? First of all, 
Betty and I had a free fight in the morning. I 
found she had borrowed a pair of my shoes. Now 
if there’s one thing infuriates me it’s that : my shoes 
and my gloves are two things I won’t lend to any- 
body ; I’d sooner give them outright. I have a 
very slender foot, and any one else utterly spoils the 
shape of a shoe for me. You can imagine how in- 
dignant I was to find Betty’s fat hoof in my pet pair. 
Oh, I did talk ! 

That of course brought mother’s wrath down on 
me. Not that she could uphold Betty’s taking my 
shoes, but she said I might have spoken more gently 
to the child and that I was an unnatural sister. That 
annoyed me for the whole morning, and everything 
seemed perverse. I was late making the salads for 


BESIDE THE LAKE 


59 


lunch, and mother was more icy than ever. I won- 
der if she’s always as freezing with dad when they’re 
alone ; no wonder the poor darling likes a hot-water 
bag at nights. 

I think it’s a puzzle to lots of children whatever 
their parents married each other for, don’t you ? I 
dare say, though, our children will wonder the same. 
People either grow together or grow apart as they 
get older, don’t they? Maybe there were lots of 
things they liked about each other at the time. 

Anyway, mother was angry about the lunch, and 
when any one's angry with me, whether they're 
justified or not, I get miserable. I can’t bear a 
stormy atmosphere ; I love everybody round me to 
be sunny and happy. And, to complete it all, that 
Mr. Wymondham came round to afternoon tea. I 
really do think he’s the most utter idiot on earth, 
though he’s not bad-looking, if you like English 
pink and whiteness. But he rubs me the wrong 
way the whole time, and he will insist on trying to 
be nice to me — I suppose because I won’t. Why 
mother encourages him beats me ; he’s such an ass. 
He’s an Englishman, with an accent so delicate you 
think every minute it will catch a cold and die. 
Mother says his people came over with the Conqueror 
or somebody, but that seems to me such a silly rea- 
son for tolerating a bore; it’s nothing to do with 
him now, he didn't help. I call him the Remittance 
Man, but not in front of mother. 

He's one of the few people I can summon up reso- 
lution to snub, but he's such an ass I don’t believe 


6o 


TIME O’ DAY 


he notices it ; even Fred says he’s a melon. I 
stabbed his conceit this afternoon, though, and I 
don't feel a bit sorry. He was pestering me all the 
time, and I was bad-tempered to start with. He 
kept trying to touch my fingers as he took the cups 
from me, and I got just boiling inside, and once, 
trying to put my fingers out of his reach, we dropped 
one of mother’s pet cups between us. Mother only 
gave me a look, and I could have killed him. And 
even then the silly old thing wouldn't keep away, 
and finally he said in a low tone : 

‘‘Why are you always so cruel to me. Thyme ? 
Do be kind." And I seized my opportunity and 
laughed cruelly, and looked him up and down with 
a sweet kind of criticism and said so that every one 
could hear : 

“ I think time has done a good deal for you 
already." 

He was so angry, for he hates to be thought at all 
old, though he must be over forty, and he left me 
alone after that. There is some use in having a silly 
name at times, isn’t there ? I can’t imagine why they 
gave Marje and me such idiotic names ; the other 
children are all baptized like Christians. 

So you can guess I didn't feel very partified as I 
dressed, but when I had my chiffon frock on and my 
hair parted in the middle and done in three coils over 
my ears and round the back, flat and demure-looking, 
and the sparkle of temper still in my eyes, I thought 
perhaps he might like the look of me if he came. 
“ He ” was Mr. Gale, of course. Marjoram hates me 


BESIDE THE LAKE 


6i 


when I dress demurely — she says I look more of a 
young imp than usual ; but I love that frock, with 
its unexpected folds and twists and weeny pink rose- 
buds peeping at you out of corners. 

I didn^t see him among the crowd when we got 
there. We were all out on the balcony, for it was a 
hot night, and Dolly announced that the first part of 
the evening was to be a peanut hunt, and told every- 
body to get their partners. I was in a corner and I 
squeezed up against the wall. I still felt a bit can- 
tankerous, and I couldn^t see Mr. Gale anywhere, 
and as Fd made up my mind to have him as a part- 
ner, I knew I shouldn’t be a bit agreeable to any one 
else. Everybody began pairing off, and I turned 
my back to one boy I saw coming to me, and still I 
couldn’t see the pig ; and then Dr. Philip came and 
asked me, and I felt so cross I nearly said yes, and 
just then I saw him standing in the doorway looking 
around. Of course he might have been looking for 
Dolly, but somehow way down I felt he wasn’t, and 
I told Dr. Philip I was already promised, and he 
went away. It wasn’t exactly a lie, because I knew 
we were promised in our own minds. 

But still he couldn’t see me in the dusk of the 
balcony, and I wouldn’t walk down nearer him where 
he could see me. I suppose I might have helped 
him when I knew he was looking for me, but I don’t 
know why ; I couldn’t. And then he went inside. I 
felt awful then. I thought he had gone to ask some^ 
one else, and I followed the last two or three off the 
balcony with my heart in my boots. Thyme O’Dea 


62 


TIME O’ DAY 


partnerless I And just inside the threshold of the 
door stood my lord carefully scanning the group that 
chattered its way down-stairs and greeting acquaint- 
ances. Just as I stepped in I heard a fellow half- 
way down call up, “Who are you waiting for, 
Bob ? ” But he only laughed. 

And as soon as I stepped in his whole face lit up 
in the nicest coziest sort of way, and he calmly 
stepped beside me and walked down-stairs. He 
never inquired if I had a partner ; he just said : 

“ I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Where 
did you hide yourself ? ” 

“ I was on the balcony with the rest,*’ I answered. 

“ Were you?” he said. “ I didn’t see you, and I 
looked carefully.” 

“ I saw you,” I said. 

“ Well, you might have given me a sign,” he told 
me reproachfully. 

“ Well,” I said, half-laughing, half-indignant, 
“ how was I to know it was I you were looking for ? ” 

He looked full at me for a minute with his rather 
big reddy-brown eyes and said softly : “ I guess you 
knew. By the way,” he added quickly, “ I suppose 
I am your partner — you haven’t gone and promised 
any one else, have you ? ” 

“ No, I haven’t,” I admitted ; and he smiled, but 
so nicely : there was nothing triumphant or self- 
satisfied about it, he just looked pleased like a boy. 
I’m certain he’s an out-and-out insincere flirt, but he 
has a most fascinating kind of way with him ; he’s 
so boyish at times, he disarms you. I can quite 


BESIDE THE LAKE 


63 

understand Dolly’s being so keen on him. She’ll 
never forgive me for cutting her out. She looked 
like a little snake when she saw us together ; even 
he noticed it. As we passed out under the rose- 
porch to the garden he said laughingly : 

Who’s in disgrace with Dolly, you or me ? ” 

“ Both of us, I fancy,” I returned in the same light 
way. 

He didn’t say anymore about Dolly then, but after 
a little he remarked : 

“ If girls had a bit more sense, what a much nicer 
place the world would be ! They like being taken 
out and a man likes taking them — it’s better fun to 
spend your money with them than alone — but most 
of them seem to consider, after they’ve been to tea 
or the theatre or motoring with you a few times, that 
they’ve got a mortgage on your undivided attention.” 

“You mean,” I suggested, “ they object to rivals.” 

“ They’ve no right to consider them rivals,” he 
said, “ not so early in the game. Why, only the 
other — I mean some while ago a girl I used to think 
rather a jolly sort, and go out with at times, nearly 
blew the roof off because she saw me at tea with an- 
other girl. I never heard anything so ridiculous ! ” 

He looked quite cross. 

“Nor I,” I agreed. “A girl’s got no right to 
make a fuss about other girls until she’s engaged.” 

He smiled at me whimsically. “ I wish most girls 
thought like you. Miss O’Dea. Now I suppose we’d 
better see about those peanuts.” 

Wasn’t it lovely ? I’m sure he was talking about 


TIME DAY 


64 

Dolly and me. He was so nice. We didn’t look for 
peanuts much. We found one or two plants, and in 
grabbing them our fingers got tangled ; he has such 
electric sort of fingers, when he touched mine my 
cheeks got hot. He tried to flirt though ; 1 knew he 
was that sort. I can pretty well size any man up 
now, but I knew he was the nice sort, or I shouldn’t 
have strolled down to the duck pond with him. Dr. 
Lawrance, the father, is very proud of his pond — it’s 
really a smallish lake — and he has bronze-wings and 
pelicans and native companions, and even an old 
adjutant — it’s quite like a zoo. 

Bob and 1 stood leaning on the iron railing look- 
ing over, in the shade of the trees, and by and by 
he slipped one arm along the rail behind me and put 
the other hand on top of mine on the rail. I didn’t 
see there was any real harm in that, so I let it stop 
— <lon’t be shocked, G.G.C. ; father confessors must 
never be shocked, or they won’t get the whole truth 
any more, and your great-grandma is not a prude. 
I don’t think it’s wrong to flirt just a wee bit, do you 
— do you, G.G.C. ? 

He talked so nicely. He has a soft melty kind of 
voice just made for saying things that sound lovely 
at the time but which aren’t worth remembering. I 
guess he was cut out to be a flirt in his mother’s 
arms, and no one can help his nature, can he? 
We talked rather nonsense, but we both enjoyed it. 
He told me he loved the way I did my hair in those 
heavy coils ; he said they made my mouth look 
naughtier than ever. I said “Is it naughty ? ” 


BESIDE THE LAKE 


65 

He laughed like a boy and said Rather I " and 
then he said he thought it perfectly fascinating the 
way my lower lip bulges out in the middle. It does, 
you know. I don’t on earth know why ; I think it 
always looks like a half-pout, but he said you could 
never take it as that because I had such merry eyes. 

And then we got on to names, and he told me his 
nickname at college was “ Copper ” Gale. He 
laughed while he told me and said he used to be 
thankful it wasn’t “ Carrots.” 

“ But it really is more copper than red,” I assured 
him, and he only laughed again and said he didn’t 
much mind if it was purple. 

** Have you got a nickname ? ” he asked me. “ I 
know your real name, for I’ve heard Dolly call you 
by it.” 

‘‘ Do you know my name ? ” I said. “ I think it’s 
absurd to call a girl a name like that. They used to 
make awful fun of me at school.” 

** Did they ? ” he said. ‘‘ What a shame,” and his 
voice made the words sound ever so much nicer than 
that. ‘‘ I’ve thought it a lovely name ever since I 
heard it. But I think if I knew you well enough I 
should call you Daytime.” 

** That sounds prettier,” I said. ‘‘ But why ? ” 

‘‘ I don’t know,” he said. “ It’s how I think of 
you. You seem to me the sunniest girl I’ve ever 
met, you make me think of a morning gallop, with 
the wind in your ears and the sparkle on the sea.” 

All this time, you must remember, our heads were 
close together over the railing and he was playing 


66 TIME DAY 

with my fingers, and that makes it all sound more 
convincing. 

And when I said we must go back, he asked me 
for a kiss, and I said no. I hated doing it, but I do 
think it’s over the fence to kiss men you know only 
so little. I hate kissing anyway ; I think it’s stupid. 
I only do it sometimes because men are so crazy on 
it. I can’t see what there is in it to get so excited 
about, but since they like it so, it doesn’t matter to 
me one way or the other. It seems so selfish to refuse 
to give them such a tiny bit of pleasure, don’t you 
think ? I don’t see any more harm in kissing a man 
than a girl. It’s the way you do it makes it horrid 
or not. I never let any one kiss me on the mouth — 
I’m sure it’s unhealthy. You know I think there are 
two kinds of flirting : healthy and unhealthy. The 
unhealthy is the morbid lead-each-other-on, pretend- 
it’s-the-real-thing kind of sickly sentimentalism, but 
the other I reckon is just the expression of a kind of 
joyousness : you both play at love, you make-believe 
like kids ; you know like they do it isn’t real, but 
it’s the most fascinating kind of play. I often think 
some of the minutes I most like to look back on have 
been spent flirting with a really nice-minded man, 
and likewise some of the horridest have been where 
he’s turned out to be a sentimental beast. 

But Bob is the healthy sort, like me. He makes 
love laughing. He wasn’t a bit disconcerted by my 
refusal. His face was grave, but his eyes twinkled. 

“ Won’t you ? ” he coaxed. I’d be so good and 
I want it dreadfully.” 


BESIDE THE LAKE 


67 

Oh, please no,” I said uncomfortably, and I 
wriggled, for he had both arms lightly round me 
and was holding me a prisoner. “ Wait till we know 
each other better,” I temporized. 

But we never may,” he objected. ** Suppose we 
both die in the night. We might,” he added in an 
injured tone as I giggled, “ of ptomaine poisoning 
at supper. Or suppose Tm recalled to Melbourne. 
Mayn^t I ? ” He drew the tiniest bit closer. 

“ Oh, please no,” I said quickly. “ Don't think 
me horrid, but I — I don't know why I mind so much 
—I ” 

He let me free in a second and said so nicely, ‘‘ I 
beg your pardon ; I want my ears boxed. Will you 
box them ? ” 

He stood there with his head bent ready, looking 
so repentant I had to laugh, and we walked back as 
if nothing had happened, but as we got to the sup- 
per-room he stopped for a moment. 

“ Tm a bad boy. Miss O’Dea,” he said, so comic- 
ally one couldn't be serious. ” I know it and you 
know it, but you're not very cross with me, are you ? ” 

“ I’m not cross at all,” I said. ‘‘ Don't be absurd.” 

“ Then may I see you home ? ” he said. 

** It's only a few streets away,” I said, “ and there 
are a lot of us going together, but if you like ” 

“ Thank you,” he said. ” Now I suppose I had 
better go and make peace with Dolly. I say,” in the 
glare of the room, with that laugh in his eyes he 
looked more of a boy than ever, ** I think you're a 
brick ! ” and then he vanished. 


68 


TIME O’ DAY 


Dolly^s brow was smoother as she saw Dr. Philip 
sitting next me at supper. He is very nice, but so 
cold and polished ; he makes me frightened to say a 
word. I can^t make out why he is so polite to me, 
for he makes me so nervous that when I do open my 
mouth more than usual silliness comes out ; but he 
listens in the same attentive way he would to an- 
other doctor talking about a sigmoidoscope or a 
sub-mucous. Don’t be alarmed at my learnedness, 
G.G.C. Fred is a first-year medical, and we pick 
up heaps of words from him we don’t know the 
meaning of. I always say I’ve got catarrh instead 
of a cold now ; it sounds more imposing and people 
are so sympathetic. 

I’m glad I didn’t let him kiss me. I wonder if he 
was offended. I don’t think so, because he has 
asked me to go to lunch with him next time I go 
shopping. We’ve fixed for next Thursday. He was 
a perfect dear too, coming home, kind and sensible. 
I explained that I don’t like kissing, and only do it 
when I am sorry for people or grateful. I said he 
had made the evening awfully enjoyable for me, and 
if he really thought it nasty of me But he in- 

terrupted quite indignantly and said he’d sooner I of- 
fered him sixpence outright than a kiss of gratitude. 
But those are the only sorts I’ve ever given yet. 

I wonder why I don’t like it. Gordon says it’s 
because I’ve never been kissed by the right person. 
I wonder ? What was it he said about a kiss now ? 
I remember. “ A kiss is all the rich beauty of the 
world packed into one intoxicating second ; it is the 


BESIDE THE LAKE 69 

dominant chord in the harmony of love ; it is the 
grand heart-throb in the pulse of life ; it is poetry 
and music materialized ; it is the maddest, grandest, 
silliest and most idiotic process in the world.” Fancy 
all that in a kiss I Doesn’t Gordon have queer 
ideas ? But I don’t think he ever kisses girls, all the 
same. He never has me, anyway, and I don’t think 
there’s anybody he likes better than me. I should 
be awfully wild if I thought there was. Oh, I’m 
getting sleepy, and as there’s nothing more to tell I 
think I’ll say good-night. 

I’m thinking out all sorts of things to say to him 
at lunch, sensible sorts of things. I suppose he 
thinks me silly. When I kissed a rose whose head 
I broke off as I was passing, he said I was the 
quaintest little girl he’d ever met. I always kiss 
flowers when I have to throw them away ; it seems 
so cruel before they are quite dead to leave them by 
themselves all lonely. I think if I were a flower I 
should feel better if some one said they were sorry 
when I had to die. It seems so cruel to be flung 
away when you are no more use. 

I’d like him to call me Daytime. 

And, do you know, I half wish he’d kissed me. 
How stupid men are to ask I As if a girl could say 
yes. Why didn’t he do it without asking if he 
wanted to? I believe I shouldn’t have minded. 
What a shameless brat I am, but I’m only talking 
to my privatest self. Yes, I think I wish he had. 
Only to see what it was like, of course. 

But he is nice. 


CHAPTER VIII 


ADA AND VANE 

Ada is a rummy kid ; she^s frightfully unlike the 
rest of us — at least I suppose she’s something after 
the same pattern as Marje, but not so snappy in her 
manner. She’s awfully self-willed and decided 
where her opinions are concerned, and her opinions 
on things are often too funny for words. 

She and I are getting rather friendly. I suppose 
it’s because she’s grown up — at least she has put up 
her hair — but she hasn’t come out yet, and, what’s 
more, she says she won’t, the social side of life 
doesn’t appeal to her, she says. We often talk 
things over now about society and men and that 
sort of thing. We don’t agree on anything, but we 
try to consider each other’s point of view a bit, and 
really Ada will be a nice girl in a year or two, when 
she has had some of her priggishness knocked out 
of her. She makes me feel like a sermon does, 
although I’m nearly four years older. 

Why, I’m an old woman beside Ada I 

But her ideas on men especially are the limit. 
Still, as I tell her when she hints that she considers 
me fast, four years out like I’ve had will alter her 
point of view a heap. She says it won’t, but she 
doesn't know what she’s talking about. Of course I 


ADA AND VANE 


7 ^ 


was never as prim as Ada, but still, when I was her 
age, rd a lot of illusions left. But Ada’s all illusions, 
and Fm sorry for her, for she’ll get hurt when they 
start busting up, unless she doesn’t see it. I think 
some people don’t see them fade; they can’t feel 
quickly enough — maybe Ada’s like that. 

She puzzles me at times. What a lot of thought 
Fm giving to a mere sister, and she wouldn’t be 
grateful if she knew either. But Fm beginning to 
think I really like Ada, I mean apart from her being 
a sister. Of course one feels sisterly to one’s sisters 
because they are so, but I mean in some ways now 
I like Ada for herself. We had a yarn to-night after 
dinner on the lawn. I was sprawling on the grass 
looking up at the stars, and Ada was sitting on a 
chair beside me. I was giving her a jab or two 
about Vane Haste, and she got quite offended and 
dignified. She has very serious big eyes, and she 
turned them on me and said : 

‘‘ I don’t think you ought to talk like that, Thyme. 
I can’t bear people being silly.” 

My sweet sister,” I said, “ silliness is half the joy 
of life.” 

‘‘ Well, I don’t like it,” she replied in her decided 
way. 

But you like him, don’t you ? ” I asked. ** He’s 
absolutely mad about you.” I love teasing Ada. 

“ I wish you wouldn’t say such things,” she said 
vexedly. “ You oughtn’t to tell me.” 

‘‘ Why not ? ” I pursued, enjoying myself. He 
makes no secret of it, he told me so, and he wants 


72 TIME DAY 

me to tell you. You see he hasn't the courage him- 
self." 

** Hasn't he ? " Ada said indignantly, and then bit 
her lip as I laughed at drawing her. But the situa- 
tion is really a joke. I know it sounds an extraordi- 
nary thing to say about a member of our family, but 
Ada has never had a boy before. Those that come 
to the house are nice to her, of course, but she is 
rather quiet until you know her well, and always 
seems to make a background for the other two kids. 
No one till now has sought her out especially ; I sup- 
pose that is why we are all so interested. Besides 
Ada has her work. She is a kindergarten teacher, 
and is crazy about it. She has not long been through 
her course, and I suppose always working and 
studying has helped to keep her mind off men, she 
is so absorbed in her children. She's very clever at 
it too, they say. 

But about a fortnight ago a couple of Mrs. Haste's 
nephews from Melbourne came to stay with her. 
They are only kids about nineteen — at least I think 
Micky is twenty — but they are only youngsters, and 
such dears. I have seen more of them than the rest 
of the family because I go such a lot to Hastes'. Of 
course I'm no interest to them. I'm far too old — their 
taste, as Vane ingenuously confessed, still runs to 
flappers and those lately emancipated from flapper- 
hood — but we get on well. They love to tease me. 
They think I am Gordon's girl, and poor little Mrs. 
Haste gets so distressed and annoyed. Gordon and 
I have to laugh — we can't help it ; but I don't think 


ADA AND VANE 


73 

Gordon minds anyway, and I’m sure I don’t. I’ve 
had two brothers to break me in to teasing. And 
they are too big to remonstrate with. They are too 
thin yet, and need to fill out a lot to look big, but 
they are both six-footers. One day when I did tell 
Vane what I thought of his behavior, he picked me 
up and gently dropped me out of the window. 

But I’ve got the joke back on him now, for he’s 
head over heels in love with Ada. It all happened 
in a second, as soon as he set eyes on her. If they 
were a bit older it would be delightfully romantic, 
but at their ages it is absurd, besides Ada isn’t a bit 
impressed. But I’m enjoying it, for Vane confides 
in me, thinking I’m of a sympathetic disposition, and 
Micky and Ada both furnish scraps of enlighten- 
ment. 

Micky is immensely tickled about it. He is really 
more boyish than Vane, although he is the elder. 
He’s one of those nice flirty-natured sort of boys who 
like nearly every girl they meet and whom nearly 
every girl likes, and he has very pretty manners. 
He’ll be simply charming in a few years. But Vane 
somehow gives one the impression of being more 
solid — in fact in some ways he’s rather like Gordon. 
Perhaps that’s why I like him a wee bit more than 
Micky, although I liked Micky best at first. No, I 
believe I like them about the same — comparisons are 
horrid, aren’t they ? But Vane needs getting used 
to. He has such a funny abrupt manner ; even with 
Ada he’s the same. She couldn’t understand him 
at first. 


74 


TIME DAY 


The other night he wanted her to go to the pic- 
tures — it was the day after I introduced them — and 
Ada told me afterward that she nearly had a fit at 
the way he asked her. He said, after fidgeting a 
bit, “ Are you going to the pictures next week ? ” 

Ada said, ** I felt such a fool. Thyme, for I knew 
he was trying to ask me, so I said, ‘ I haven't 
thought about it.’ And then he said, ‘ You can go 
next Monday.’ And I felt a bigger ass than ever, 
so I just said vaguely, ‘ Thanks.’ But he wanted to 
clinch the matter, so after a big effort he blurted out, 
‘ Will you come ? ’ And of course, when he put it 
as bluntly as that, I couldn’t retort with a blunt ‘ No,’ 
could I?” 

And she slapped me because I winked ! 

But she wouldn’t go unless Micky went too, so I 
suggested he should take Fay. Ada and propriety 
were thus appeased. She doesn’t encourage him 
much, and that’s a fact, but Vane is pretty tenacious, 
though I should never have thought Ada would be 
the sort of girl to take his fancy — she is so quiet, and 
he is, too, rather. Ada says he is hard to talk to and 
there are long gaps in the conversation, but every 
day Vane tells me what a bonza girl she is. I sup- 
pose it’s really that has made me look Ada over 
again, but she gets quite wild when I tell her how 
much he likes her, although I’m sure she’s secretly 
pleased. 

She wouldn’t be a girl if she wasn’t. 

But she isn’t used to such situations, and I think 
she hates to admit she’s slipping off her pedestal of 


ADA AND VANE 


75 

disdain ever so little. But it gives us a laugh now 
and again. 

How slowly old time goes I I wish it was Thurs- 
day. I wonder what Mr. Gale is doing now. I 
wonder if he’s thinking of me at all. I don’t sup- 
pose he is. Perhaps he’s round at Dolly’s. I wish 
I knew him better ; I wonder if I ever will. I did 
wish he could have been here this afternoon when I 
saw Vane gazing adoringly at Ada. 

I must be an ill-natured beast. I hate seeing 
other people adored when I happen to have no one 
myself. 


CHAPTER IX 


MAX’S MOTHER 

Hello, great-grandchildren, here I am again I 

You can’t have a very long letter to-day, because 
I simply must write a letter to Max in a minute. 
Bother that boy I I wonder if he is really as fond of 
me as he makes out, but I don’t guess so, he always 
did talk nonsense. I dare say he has half a dozen 
girls in the West. 

I’ve another piece of news for you, G.G.C. : your 
great-aunt Marjoram has just become engaged to 
Petermac. I suppose I don’t sound very excited 
over the first engagement in the house, but neither 
she nor Petermac is the sort to encourage excite- 
ment, and besides it’s several days old now. 

I feel the teeniest bit worried about it at times. I 
don’t think Marje is wildly happy, but she’ll get lots 
fonder of him as it goes on — most engaged people do 
that. I’ve noticed. Why, if they have a long en- 
gagement, those that start out with being rather in 
love with each other become positively unbearable 
by their wedding-day. Besides, he adores her, and 
if she doesn’t care for anybody else, what more can 
a woman want ? She said to me the other morning, 
with the funniest look when I said something of the 
sort to her, Oh, well. I’ve done my duty to the 


MAX^S MOTHER 


77 


family/' and she won^t say anything more. Some- 
times I think there must be some one else, but I’ve 
run through every man who ever came to the house, 
and not one could possibly fit. Besides, I suppose 
he doesn’t love her, or she wouldn’t take Petermac, 
and what’s the use of loving a man who doesn’t love 
you ? 

Anyway, he’s given her the loveliest ring, emeralds 
and diamonds, and he does anything she wants, so 
she ought to be happy. She’s not the sentimental, 
romantic sort ; 1 don’t think any of our family are. 
We’ve all got just a grain of mother in us to leaven 
dad’s soft-heartedness. I was terribly romantic in my 
teens. I used to revel in rarefied courtships and 
elopements and all the eighteenth century frill, 
knee-breeches and powder and buckles and all. I 
used to think an elopement would be just gorgeous. 
I asked Gordon once if he’d like to elope with me, 
but he said he didn’t think so. I pointed out he 
couldn’t possibly tell till he’d tried, but he wasn’t 
convinced. 

But now I’m older I’m terribly practical. You 
can’t be romantic once you really think about things 
and watch how they turn out with your friends. 
Romance is two blind eyes. Ignorance and Imagina- 
tion ; that’s why it is so foolhardy. Romance is for 
novels, not for life, like Bohemia and heaven. Bo- 
hemia’s sweet in theory, but you can never localize 
it. I don’t believe it ever existed ; it’s just a 
“ blether ” of the poets, their land of El Dorado — in 
fact, the artistic heaven — and to try to materialize 


TIME O’ DAY 


78 

the life there is as disappointing as it would be to go 
sightseeing in an actual golden street with milk and 
honey running in the gutters. 

When you are a young girl, love and marriage 
and things like that are things you think of with the 
gloves on, as it were ; they catch the blush glow of 
your first feeling of being in love with life. But when 
you get older and watch other people’s marriages, 
and think over it — I suppose it’s sensible to face facts 
— your happiness is likely to be more lasting if it 
takes everydayness into account, but it isn’t quite so 
intense and absorbed. When you are a schoolgirl 
you never get past the wedding-day ; it just seems 
the acme and apotheosis of love’s young dream, and 
you never think of anything but your dress and his 
kisses — and you find out later it’s mostly bread and 
butter and the price of meat and nurses. 

What nonsense I’m talking ! But thinking of 
Marje has set me off, and besides I’ve just washed 
my hair. I want it to be nice and fluffy for to- 
morrow, when I go to lunch with Mr. Gale. I shall 
wear my voile with the blue spots, I think. I al- 
ways have some blue about me on account of my 
eyes. Gordon once told me a girl who could match 
her eyes in her dress could upset any man’s equi- 
librium. I wonder will I upset Bob’s? I wonder 
does he really like me, or will it be another girl next 
week ? 

You know I always want to moralize when I wash 
my hair, it makes me look so ugly for an hour or 
two. All the color seems to draw out of my face, 


MAX^S MOTHER 


79 


and when Tve no color I look hideous. Really, I 
look downright horrible to-day ; for two pins Fd red- 
den my lips. I shall to-morrow anyway if they 
don’t look better. Talking of painting, I had a joke 
yesterday on Mr. Wymondham. He rather fancies 
himself an artist, and he’s asked me more than once to 
let him do my portrait. And yesterday he said again : 

“ Thyme, I should like to paint your face.” 

I couldn’t resist the temptation, and I answered 
innocently : ‘‘ Would you really ? It would save me 
a lot of trouble, but do you think you could do it 
better than I ? Your own shows a bit at times, you 
know.” He could just have murdered me, for he 
does make up a bit to try and appear younger. But 
isn’t it funny the way some people go on about paint- 
ing ? I don’t do it really because I don’t need it, 
but if I did I would like a shot. Of course girls who 
have a nice skin naturally can afford to sneer, and 
those who won’t, on principle, sniff because they are 
jealous, knowing the other girls aren't really any 
better underneath, though they look it, and men 
laugh about it for want of something better, but they 
marry them just the same and sooner than the sal- 
low girls who won’t. Good reason too ! The girl 
who takes a pride in her appearance is likely to take 
a pride in her home. The sallow girl may well turn 
out a slattern. A nice girl can hoodwink a man 
even if she’s plain and if she’s actually pretty — a man 
never minds what a pretty girl says to him, because 
he never credits her with brains enough to make the 
rudeness intentional. 


8o 


TIME O’ DAY 


I feel so absurdly restless, I don’t know what to 
do. Good gracious, one would think I’d never been 
to lunch before, the way I keep on thinking about it. 
I wish he’d ring up to-day. I haven’t seen or heard 
from him since that night at Dolly’s. But I dare say 
he’s out with other girls. Did I tell you Dolly came 
round yesterday? She said she wanted to play 
tennis, but she kept talking about him in between 
the sets, though she didn’t get any change out of me. 
I may be a fool, as the family say, but I can hold my 
tongue if I don’t want to talk. She beat me two sets 
running, though. I shall have to practice a bit 
more. I hate being beaten by Dolly. 

I think I’d better stop. I’m talking rot. It’s too 
hot to go to town, and Maida has gone up the line 
with Peterjohn for the day. I’d go in next door and 
cheer up Mrs. Haste, but I’m afraid I shall let myself 
in for another veiled lecture about Gordon. She’s 
the darlingest old lady, and very queenly and very 
proper. She always dresses in grey and she has 
soft grey eyes. She likes me in a kind of disap- 
proving way, if you can understand. I think she’s 
fond of me, as it were, against her better judg- 
ment. 

I think she is sorry Max likes me, but since he 
does she tries to discourage my affections from set- 
tling on any one else. You see she worships Max. 
I have to laugh at times ; she daren’t say anything 
to Gordon point-blank, so lately she has taken to 
giving me veiled lectures on the virtues of fidelity. 

It’s all I can do to keep a straight face sometimes 


MAX^S MOTHER 


8i 


when Pm helping her roll her wool, as demure as 
demure can be ; but oh I she is so transparent. Some- 
times when she holds forth on Gordon and his in- 
stability compared with Max, who according to her is 
of the ** there's only one girl in the world for me " 
variety, I just long for some one to share the joke 
with. Besides, isn't it silly of mothers to explain 
their sons to their girl friends? The girls know 
heaps more about the average son than their mothers 
ever will, and occasionally it's very hard not to smile 
at what the mothers think about their paragons. 
Mrs. Haste would have a fit if I told her some things 
I could about her beloved Max. 

A few weeks ago she confided in me that she was 
sure Gordon would die a bachelor. I sweetly agreed. 
I agree with everything she says now, and that brings 
her to the end of her resources, for you can't have a 
discussion of one. But now she has chang.ed round. 
Considering Gordon has been at our house almost 
every day for a fortnight, I was expecting a change 
of tactics. Her theory now is that he'll fall suddenly 
and violently in love with some girl on first meeting 
her — some day in the far future of course, very, very 
far. I agreed again that it was most likely, but she 
didn’t look satisfied even then. 

Isn't she a trick ? 

Well, I must go again. Ada is calling me to hook 
up her frock — she and Vane are off to the theatre. 
It took a frightful lot of persuasion on my part to get 
her to go with him alone, for Fay, who was to have 
made a four with Micky, went away to spend the 


82 


TIME O’ DAY 


week-end up-country and threw over the arrange- 
ment, and Micky declared he wasn’t going to play 
gooseberry, and I couldn’t step in, for Gordon and I 
are going rinking. Vane owes me a lot. I say all 
sorts of nice things to Ada about him, but I think 
he is grateful ; he tells me every day I am a true 
sport. 

That is his highest compliment. 

He is beginning to think gloomily of the end of 
his holiday. He and Micky are going on the land 
together, that is why they are having this long holi- 
day first. They are cousins, not brothers, I suppose 
I should explain, and most tremendous pals; they 
have been ever since they were about ten. 

Micky and I are quite interested in Vane’s little 
love affair. Micky can afford to be superior, for he 
hasn’t struck a girl here to beat the little girl in 
Melbourne as Vane has. He tells me all about her, 
and to-day he read me some of a letter he got from 
her. He says he will send me her photo when he 
gets back to Melbourne to show me what a little 
peach she is. 

Kids are quaint. 

I wonder if I was as funny when I was nineteen. 


CHAPTER X 


AN AWFUL FOOL 

Oh ! I do feel miserable. I’ve been the most 
awful fool. It’s all my temper again. I’ve got a 
beast when it really starts, and I’ve smashed up 
everything. Mr. Gale will never speak to me again, 
never. I don’t care about that — not much, anyway, 
but it’s what he must be thinking of me. He must 
think me the rudest, most shameless, ill-tem- 
pered Oh, dear I every time I think of what 

he must be thinking I get hot all over. I could 
never look him in the face again if I did meet him. 
Why don’t I stop and count ten or something when 
I am mad ? 

I can’t tell a soul about it either, not even Maida, 
but I can write it, somehow, because it does relieve 
my mind to put it down. And it all happened 
so simply too. Great-grandchildren, have you ever 
done things you feel ashamed of afterward ? If you 
haven’t I don’t think I can tell you, but I’m sure 
you must have — that is, if you’re my great-grand- 
children. 

It started with the lunch. You remember I told 
you I was going to lunch with him. I went and 
enjoyed it immensely. We had it at Holland House, 
and we saw several people we knew. Nearly every 


TIME DAY 


84 

man there seemed to know him, and he was perfectly 
charming. He told me yarns about his college days 
— he went to Scotch, so Micky and Vane would ap- 
prove of him ; they have both just left — and he spoke 
of his people — he has only one brother and two 
sisters — and about when he was at the ^Varsity how, 
by judicious insinuation, he had induced a boy and 
girl to believe the other was in love with each, and 
how the boy, who was shy, under repeated urgings 
from him, at last attempted to be tender to her, and 
was rewarded by a slap on the cheek. He really was 
a darling, and I laughed and laughed ; the hour flew 
by like a minute. 

And now the tragic part begins. 

When we said good-bye we arranged to meet the 
next night at the Coles’s moonlight euchre — at least, 
when I say arranged to meet,” I don’t mean we 
fixed it quite as bluntly as that, but he said he would 
be there although he hadn’t intended going, and I 
did likewise. We both understood perfectly without 
saying so that we were to meet each other, and that, 
except for that, neither of us would probably go. 

Well, he didn’t turn up. 

Wouldn’t you have been mad? I was anyway. 
It was the stupidest party I ever was at. Even 
Gordon wasn’t there ; he had to work at the last 
minute. I was bored to tears, and I could have 
murdered Bob Gale, but I reflected, when at last the 
thing came to an end, that perhaps some business 
had come in at the last minute that simply had to be 
attended to that night, and he would probably ring 


AN AWFUL FOOL 


85 

me up in the morning and explain. All the same, 
Marjoram said I was like a bear with a sore head 
going home, and I certainly felt it. 

And next morning he didn^t ring up, nor the next 
afternoon^ nor the next And I got madder and 
madder and furiouser. And he didn’t the next day, 
nor the next^ nor the next And with my indigna- 
tion boiling and simmering with the lid on, and not 
being able even to tell Maida — it seems such a 
humiliating sort of thing to confess a man slipped 
you up and never bothered to apologize — oh ! you 
can’t guess how angry and outraged I felt. It 
seemed as if he thought me just a bit of nothing he 
could make a fuss over one day and ignore the next 
as it suited him, as if I didn’t count at all. I don’t 
think my pride has ever smarted like that before. 

I know you’re thinking I might have given him 
the credit of believing he had written and the letter 
had gone astray. I did think of that, but it won’t 
hold water, because if I had got an apology from him 
I should have let him know it didn’t matter, and if 
he had written and found his letter ignored, any 
sensible man would ring up and find if it had been 
received. No, he just dropped me completely, and 
when I went round to Coles’s and found out diplo- 
matically that they had had a hurried note excusing 
his absence by press of business, I felt I could have 
screamed in front of them. 

I stood it eight whole days, and it spoiled every- 
thing I did. We went to the Crystal Palace one 
night — Gordon and Marje and Petermac and I — and 


86 


TIME DAY 


I couldn’t take any interest in a single thing, not even 
the fortune-telling. If I did start to get interested, 
the horrid business would flash across my mind 
again, and Fd get silent and wretched. I felt what 
was the use of being pleased when men are nice to 
you if they could turn round as suddenly as that ? 
I wondered if perhaps I had been too friendly and 
nice at lunch, and he thought me too easily won. 
But I never can pretend not to like people when I 
do, any more than I can pretend to like them when 
I don’t. Besides, I think it’s stupid to be always 
masking your feelings. Why shouldn’t one be 
natural ? Why should we pretend ? 

“ Etiquette,” you say. Etiquette be d , but it 

isn’t etiquette to say so. We are all so very afraid 
of making fools of ourselves. Gordon says, if we 
only realized it. Nature has done it for most of us 
already. Mankind is two sorts, solemn fools and 
merry fools, and give him the merry fool any day. 
We are so weighed down by our serious conception 
of ourselves, of our importance in the scheme of 
things, as if we counted, with our puny loves and 
hates. Love, hate, laugh, cry, he says, as the spirit 
moves you, and the world will sympathize. People 
who sneer at abandon are mostly jealous of it. 

Gordon says it’s this paralyzing solemnity he hates 
most. We are afraid to let ourselves go, afraid to 
show our affection too plainly lest people should pre- 
sume on it or misconstrue its temperature, afraid to 
commit ourselves to action for fear we change our 
opinion later on. Fear ! The world is ruled by 


AN AWFUL FOOL 87 

fear. Say, say, say, Gordon urges, and, if you want 
to later, unsay just as frankly. 

Perhaps that’s why he likes me, because I never 
pretend. 

I wonder if Bob did think I seemed to like him too 
easily. Oh, dear I it is hard being a woman. If I’d 
been ungrateful and nasty to him, perhaps he’d be 
running after me now. But I can’t be horrid to any- 
body; I only wish I could. I help liking every- 
body who seems to like me just out of a sort of 
gratitude. 

Even at night I couldn’t get away from the hor- 
rible feeling of being despised, and by the eighth 
day I couldn’t stand it any longer. If he was going 
to drop me without another word, I’d give him 
something to remember me by. When my temper 
reaches boiling point, which honestly it seldom does, 
for even the family admit I’m pretty good-natured, 
but when it does, I can give people vitriol, especially 
on paper — even then I find it hard to speak it. And 
I wrote him a note. I feel a kind of melancholy 
pride in it even now. It was just biting, though ex- 
quisitely polite. Roughly it was something to the 
effect that, as he didn’t seem to have enough grace 
to keep his appointments or courtesy to apologize 
for the lack of it, I regretted I would be obliged 
to discontinue his acquaintance, or something like 
that. 

I’m not sure that that was exactly it, but oh ! it 
must have made him writhe. If he didn’t like me, 
I made up my mind he should detest me. He was 


88 


TIME O’ DAY 


going to see if I was a meek worm that could be 
trampled on. I had a sting. 

I hated him — I just hated him. I got a kind of 
satisfaction out of writing the note, but when I had 
posted it I felt more miserable than before, because 
I didn’t want him to hate me really and I had cut 
myself off for good now. Then I wondered how 
he’d answer it or if he’d answer it at all. I know I 
shouldn’t have. I wondered though what excuse he 
could give. I thought of every reason I could, but none 
of them were real excuses. Even if he was busy he 
could surely spare a second to come to the telephone. 

And then he didn’t answer my letter at least for 
four days. I had begun to think he wouldn’t at all 
then, and I used to lie in bed in the mornings and 
just think when I met him in town how I’d wither 
him with a look, tilt my chin up to a haughty angle 
and cut him dead. I practiced it before the glass, but 
I never saw him in town. And then the awfullest part 
was that Dolly Lawrance gave me several horrid little 
prods about him ; of course she didn’t know we’d 
quarreled and I didn’t enlighten her. She’ll be as 
pleased as pleased when she does know, as I suppose 
she will some time. The only comfort I’ve got is she 
hasn’t seen him either. She says Dr. Philip says he’s 
working like six men and is worried about something. 

I wonder if it’s me ? Serve him right if it is. Oh, 
I do wish he hadn’t been horrid ; we could have 
been such jolly friends. I know we could. 

But I haven’t finished telling you yet, there’s a lot 
more. I hope it doesn’t sound silly and trivial. I 


AN AWFUL FOOL 


89 

suppose, as a matter of fact, it is, but the conse- 
quences aren’t anyway ; the biggest things of your 
life seem to hang on the tiniest at times. It was 
only just a chance that dad happened to stand for 
Parliament, the member who for years had been sent 
in by our district went away to England. Dad had 
never dreamed of going in for politics, and if the Lib- 
eral agent hadn’t persuaded him one day we might 
have been back-blockers still, and I mightn’t have 
known Gordon, or Dolly, or Maida, or anybody. 
Well, in that case I wouldn’t have met Mr. Gale, 
and that would have been some comfort. 

But I was telling you on the fourth day I had a 
letter from him, and I suppose it was because I’d 
given up hope, but I trembled all over in the queerest 
way when I got it. And when I’d read it I wished I 
were buried, I felt the most utter beast ever born. 
His letter was cold and dignified too, but I could see 
he was awfully hurt. He said : 

Dear Miss O’Dea : 

“ I received your note last Tuesday and re- 
gret that I have been unable to spare a moment to 
answer it before. I was very sorry that it was not 
possible for me to put in an appearance at the party. 
I would explain the circumstances to you, but as you 
have quite decided that you do not wish to continue 
my acquaintance it is not worth wasting your time. 

** Yours sincerely, 

“ Robert Heathness Gale.” 

I have been an unreasonable wretch, haven’t I ? I 
might have remembered men have other things to 


TIME DAY 


90 

think of besides girls, worries and responsibilities we 
haven’t, and he might really have been unable to 
ring up. Anyway I felt an unutterable cad, and I 
found a million excuses for him although he hadn’t 
put forward one himself. But that was what I liked 
the best about it ; away down at the very bottom of 
them, though they’ll never admit it, women rather 
like men taking the high hand with them. It was a 
nice straightforward note too, wasn’t it ? But I hate 
him all the same even now. 

You see, I felt so upset that on the spur of the 
minute I flew to the telephone and rang him up at 
his office. But it wasn’t much good, the wires were 
terribly bad that day and we could hardly hear each 
other, and he said there was a terrific noise going on 
at his end and I heard him savagely tell some one 
to “ shut up ” once. He didn’t sound amiable. But 
I dashed right into the breach ; when I climb down 
I climb down. But oh I a telephone that won’t 
“ tell ” is a curse. 

I made him understand at length it was me speak- 
ing, and he said ** Yes ” so coldly I nearly dropped 
the receiver and fled, but I stuck to it. I made him 
understand I’d got his letter — all this amid a deafen- 
ing buzz and repeated “ sorries ” and “ beg pardons ” 
— and he said “ Yes” again, and I said that I was a 
beast and was sorry, and of course he didn’t catch 
it, and thought I said he was a beast, and we got 
too mixed for anything, so he said he’d ring up next 
day when the wires were better. 

I do wish I hadn’t such a tender conscience. I 


AN AWFUL FOOL 


91 

always jump from one extreme to the other, and it 
never occurred to me he hadn^t explained anything 
yet, and I didn’t know any more why he hadn’t 
apologized. Somehow just his voice through the 
telephone made me feel there had been nothing to 
be cross about, and it was all my fault. So I wrote 
him another letter that night, an awfully nice one, 
explaining just why I had been mad with him and 
what I had thought he must be thinking of me, and 
how he had hurt my pride, and that I was sorry for 
my temper, and was sure he had some good reason 
for his silence, and if he really wanted to be friends 
again I would go out with him when he liked. I’m 
not very good at explaining myself nicely ; I just 
blurt out exactly what’s in my mind without think- 
ing how it may sound to any one else. Still, it’s 
done now. And then I felt happier than I’d done 
since the party. I don’t know why on earth I am 
so silly over him. 

I got the darlingest letter back the next afternoon ; 
he must have written almost the minute he got mine. 
He said it was just sweet of me to have written him 
such a frank, kind letter, because it did look as if 
he had rather deserved a little indignation, but if 
I cared to hear anything further about him he would 
explain. I’ll copy out the explaining part, other- 
wise I can’t make you see how nicely he put it. He 
says : 

“ And now for the reason of the behavior that so 
annoyed you. I’m afraid a woman may be just as 
vexed at the explanation as the offense, but a man 


TIME DAY 


92 

would understand — it was business. This is a busy 
season and I am up to my ears in work ; while I 
write this there are clerks coming in every few min- 
utes for directions. You see, Miss O’Dea, I know 
you think me a rather frivolous person, but I do take 
business seriously. Fm my father’s representative 
here, and in my own smaller way am as responsible 
for the success of the firm and its name as he is, and 
he trusts me to make good. A position like mine 
at certain seasons doesn’t only require a man’s time 
but his very thoughts, and although for a couple of 
days after the party I remembered once or twice I 
ought to ring you up, I honestly hadn’t a second to 
call my own, and after that the pressure was so 
great it even — try to forgive me — drove you out of 
my head altogether. This sounds terribly rude I 
know, but I’m telling you the plain truth ; and if you 
had seen the way I’ve been slaving till after eleven 
every night you would understand and forgive me. 
Added to it all, my father had a stroke a week ago, 
and as the doctors at first thought it was serious I 
had to make a flying trip to Melbourne, which still 
further disorganized the office. 

“ I hope you believe I would not willingly be dis- 
courteous to you for a great deal. I see no hope of 
having any free time before the end of next week, 
but if I can see any chance of a night off I will ring 
you up and see if we can’t arrange something. And 
there was no need for you to apologize about your 
writing. I read it quite easily coming over in the 
ferry this morning. I assure you I have had letters 


AN AWFUL FOOL 


93 

from girls which all the ferry trips in the world 
would fail to decipher/^ 

It was a dear letter, don^t you think ? I do still. 
I felt ridiculously happy till the end of the next week, 
though I did think once or twice he might have 
spared a second to ring up. But he didn’t ; and he 
hasn’t yet, although it’s the middle of the week after 
that. I think he’s a beast. I suppose he doesn’t 
really want to see me again any more ; but all the 
same, I reckon out of sheer politeness he ought to 
ask me out once more, especially as I said I’d go. 
I just blush whenever I think of it. I am so thought- 
less, I didn’t mean to invite myself at all ; all I meant 
was I’d like to see him again if only to tell him I 
was sorry for our misunderstanding ; but of course I 
must go and put it bluntly that I’d go out with him 
if he liked. I don’t want him to take me out, there 
are plenty of others ; I do put things so awfully, and 
perhaps he thinks I’m keen on it and that’s why he 
doesn’t care about taking me. 

Oh I I could just drown myself. I wish he was 
dead. He’s nothing but a shallow nasty flirt. You 
remember in his letter he said he had often had let- 
ters from girls. Perhaps he tells them all he feels 
they could be friends and then drops them dead. 

Oh, I could — could bite him I 

Even if he does ring up now I couldn’t possibly 
go out with him, could I ? And it’s such a pity be- 
cause we could have been friends, I know. 


CHAPTER XI 


ALWAYS BEYOND 

Pm afraid I was rather hot the last time I scrib- 
bled, but of course it hurts one's pride to be dropped 
suddenly and completely ; not that it matters in the 
least to me whether I ever see him again, except 
that I should like to have the chance of giving him 
a glorious and complete snub that would show him 
exactly how much I think of him and his paltry 
friendships. I wish I'd known as much about him 
when we first met as I do now. I'd have shown him 
there was one girl he couldn’t hoodwink ; but I 
didn’t, and he's done it. I suppose he thinks all 
girls are easy game to him. 

It’s just maddening. Of course I have neither 
seen nor heard from him again. At least, to be 
quite honest, I have seen him. It was in George 
Street. I was standing in the Arcade waiting for 
Marje and I saw him coming. He was frowning a 
little and hurrying along as if his life depended on 
getting nowhere in particular in less time than it 
takes to say it. If I had stepped out a little in the 
street, as I could easily have done, he could not 
have helped seeing me, but I wasn't going to force 
myself on his notice since he chose to forget me, and 
I drew back in the Arcade. He raced on, looking 


ALWAYS BEYOND 


95 

neither to the right nor the left, like an allegorical 
Christian, and he didn^t see me. 

It’s rather humiliating to admit it, but I believe 
right at the bottom of my heart I felt sneakingly 
sorry he somehow hadn’t caught sight of me. I 
wonder I haven’t got more pride. But I do wonder 
too why he is sick of me. I haven’t done anything. 
Of course I was nasty about that letter, but I apolo- 
gized, and what can one do more ? Besides, I think 
I had some excuse. Not that it really matters, but 
I’ve never been dropped before, and I suppose I 
can’t get used to the sensation. 

However, that’s quite enough about it. 

But sometimes, when I think of the way his eyes 
smiled down at the Lawrances’ pond, I wonder how 
he can. 

I was up at Maida’s this afternoon. Of course she 
knows a bit about it because she is my greatest pal, 
but no one else knows anything. Betty gives me 
an occasional prod about my Storm-man, but she 
doesn’t know it’s all off, fortunately for me. Maida 
says there may be reasons we can’t guess, he may be 
busy. But still, a fortnight ! Even Maida gives it up. 

All the same she soothes my injured pride. 
There’s nothing like a pal, is there ? I don’t know 
what Maida and I would do without each other, 
we’ve been inseparables ever since we were thirteen 
and were put to sit together in school. I took a 
fancy to her the first day when I heard her cheek the 
teacher. Maida could cheek more innocuously than 
any other girl, because she was such a little fragile- 


TIME DAY 


96 

looking thing and had a most disarming lisp. She 
does it still when she’s excited. We were reading 
Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare and I forget exactly 
what she said, something outrageous anyway, and 
Miss Harriet told her not to be saucy, and Maida 
lisped back with the most protesting hurt look — we 
all used to practice that look at the glass in lunch 
hour — ‘‘ But, Mitharriet, we alwayth have thauth 
with lamb at home.” 

She got a hundred lines for it, but the whole class 
thought her a heroine, and I adored her from that 
minute. We’ve never had a quarrel in our lives. 
We always make a point of not getting angry with 
each other even if we seem to have cause. If we 
seem rude or neglect each other for weeks, the 
neglected one, if inclined to feel sniffy, says to her- 
self, ‘‘ I expect she’s got a good reason, wait and see 
before you get mad,” and of course there always is 
a reason and so we don’t get mad. 

And it doesn’t matter a bit if we don’t meet for 
weeks. If our engagements happen to keep us 
apart, as they sometimes do now Maida’ s married, 
we go to each other after it perfectly convinced — in 
fact without its occurring to us we need to be con- 
vinced — that each will be wildly interested in all the 
tiniest things that have happened to the other. 

And we know almost everything about each other 
too. We read each other’s letters always. Maida 
used to let me read Jack’s even, and the others be- 
fore Jack, and I’ve showed her mine ever since we 
began to get letters at all. You see we understand 


ALWAYS BEYOND 


97 

each other so perfectly there^s never any need to 
explain or to wonder if what one thinks touching 
will appear funny to the other. That’s how we could 
read our love-letters together. When Jack called 
her the sweetest little angel in all the world, and said 
he was counting every minute to the feel of her soft 
little cheek on his own again, I didn’t think it absurd 
at all — I was as pleased as Maida. And she is just 
the same with me. If Maida went back on me I’d 
never believe in anything or anybody again. But 
of course she won’t. 

That darling imp Peterjohn behaved like a Turk 
to-day. First the little wretch woke up when he 
ought to have been asleep, and yelled for his Thyme 
to nurse him, which for the sake of peace she did, 
though Maida cruelly said, “ Let him yell ; it’s only 
temper.” 

Anyway, I didn’t. I dressed him in a clean frock 
and cuddled him, and he was as good as gold for a 
bit. I do love the way a baby laughs, as if his face 
had a sudden crack in it. Maida says I spoil him, 
and if I had him all day like she has I wouldn’t be 
so fond of nursing him ; and I was inclined to agree 
with her later on, when he got bad-tempered again 
and yelled and yelled. We banished him to nurse. 
Mustn’t it be rotten for mothers who can never get 
rid of their babies even for a wee while ? When I 
see a woman in a tram or a shop with a crying baby 
I always feel I couldn’t bear to marry a really quite 
poor man. 

I wish you could see the darling, though, when he 


TIME O’ DAY 


98 

gurgles at me. I believe I love you more than Maida 
does, Peterjohn. I wonder if when youVe a grown-up 
man your naughty blue eyes will coax their way 
under a girl’s lashes and you will tell her she’s the 
quaintest little girl you ever met — and then forget 
she ever existed. I should think he must have been 
a baby like Peterjohn, with just the same face-split- 
ting smile. I wonder if his mother ever thought 
what a pig he would grow up. I do hope Peterjohn 
will always be nice to girls. 

Gordon has been such a dear to me lately. He 
seems to be getting nicer somehow. He doesn’t 
tease me as much, and sometimes he looks at me al- 
most like other men. If it wasn’t Gordon and too 
absurd to think of, for he says he’ll never lose his 
head over a woman, I’d really think he cared a bit ; 
but it must be just imagination. 

I think life is horrid all round. Fay and I had to 
pick quarts and quarts of black currants for jam this 
morning, and my hands look as if they’d been 
dipped in purple ink — it simply wonH come off ; and 
I have to go shopping, and I don’t want to ; and I 
tore my new muslin on the door of the motor yester- 
day ; and I had a letter from Max. He is getting 
stupider, and it’s very aggravating of him ; he’s got 
no right to assume I like him just because he’s fond 
of me. It’s very conceited of him, and even if I did 
care a bit once perhaps, it doesn’t mean I’m going 
to always, especially when he’s away all the time, 
and he ought to have sense enough to know it. 
And Mrs. Haste asked me if I had had a letter to- 


ALWAYS BEYOND 


99 


day, and I said ‘‘Yes” before I thought, and then 
found out she hadn't, and I know she was angry, 
and she could have his old letter for all I care. 

Gordon is the only nice person I know. Mar- 
joram is getting silenter than ever since her engage- 
ment, and Petermac takes up every spare minute of 
her time. And just fancy ! one of my very nicest 
boys has gone and transferred his affections to Fay. 
She is a thousand times prettier than I, I know — she 
is going to be the family beauty — but her hair is still 
down ; I think it’s so queer the fancies grown-up 
men sometimes take for flappers. 

I suppose it’s ridiculous of me to mind, but it 
really is annoying to be cut out by your younger 
sister, even if she is welcome to him. It gives you 
such a shock to find all of a sudden there are more 
women in the family where you thought there were 
only kids. He is taking her to the theatre to-night, 
and Betty is so unpleasant about it — that’s why, I 
suppose, I mind. She crows about it as if it were her 
own triumph. I suppose she feels it’s the triumph of 
her faction. There have always been two sets in our 
house, as is natural : the grown-ups (us) and the kids. 

I Gordon and I are going with them, as Fay is too 
young to be allowed to go alone. He’s getting quite 
^ gay the way he flies to amusements now ; he used to 
I be a perfect old hermit — wouldn’t go anywhere. 
We went down on the beach last night for a bit. I 
love the beach summer nights, don’t you ? You 
: could hardly tell which was sky and which harbor, 
j the lights and stars looked so alike. Gordon told me 


100 


TIME DAY 


stories about troubadours and Crusaders. He knows 
the most wonderful fascinating tales ; when he gets 
started I could listen for hours and hours. You are 
never dull with Gordon. 

He was telling me last night about the birth and 
growth of French poetry ; he likes it better than 
English. He is partly French, you know. Some 
Mery on among his ancestors was frightfully clever 
and distinguished as a scientist or doctor or some- 
thing. I wish I could understand it, but Fve for- 
gotten even what they taught me at school, and that 
wasn’t much. I thought it hateful then, but Gordon 
seems to have the knack of drawing a portrait for 
you in about three words, and he gives you the 
quaintest little anecdotes to remember them by ; and 
he often quotes bits to me too, not that I can under- 
stand them, but they sound musical and he tells me 
what they mean. He has just the voice for saying 
poetry. One thing he wrote down for me ; I wanted 
to keep it. Have you ever seen it, great-grand- 
children? It sounds so prettily melancholy when 
Gordon says it, or perhaps it was the sea and the 
moonlight. The poet lived in Champagne hundreds 
of years ago and was exiled to Brittany, and he hears 
there the birds he used to hear singing in his beloved 
Champagne, and he cries : 

Les oise les de raon pays 
Ai ois en Bretagne, 

A lors chant m’est il bien avis 
Qu’en la douce Champagne 
Les ois jadis. 


ALWAYS BEYOND loi 

I wonder is it as sweet as Gordon made it sound 
to me ? 

Sometimes I tell him he must be a relation of 
Merlin, the way he bewitches me. When he gets 
going on things like that I would sooner be with 
him than anybody ; I suppose it is because I am so 
ignorant. I never even tried to learn at school, and 
I left as soon as the family would let me. I never 
knew that history and literature could ever possibly 
be interesting, or I might have tried to learn, but 
when Gordon talks them they’re better than a novel. 

And the night helped us too. We just step out 
of our back gate on to the beach, you know. The 
sand is beautiful at night, the little weed-bushes on 
the sand-hills look as if they were half-buried in glit- 
tering snow, and the moon lays a carpet of white 
across the sea for lovers to walk on over to Arcady 
that always lies just — beyond. 

Oh I great-grandchildren, always just—beyond. 

Have you found it so too ? 


CHAPTER XII 


FRIENDSHIP OR MARRIAGE ? 

Those kids will be the death of me. What do 
you think I did to-day ? — went to tea in town with 
them, to chaperone Ada, of course. I never thought 
I’d descend to playing gooseberry to one of the 
triplets, but Vane begged me to come, he said Ada 
wouldn’t unless I did. Even the suggestion of Fay 
wouldn’t move her. She evidently has a greater 
idea of my respectability than I thought she had — 
besides, Micky is very entertaining, and I wasn’t 
bored really. I should mind being seen with some 
boys that age, but they are both such dears, and so 
big too, they look older. It’s funny how relative 
difference in age is after all. I mean it would be 
absurd for a girl of twenty-two to have much to do 
with kids of nineteen, but if I were to meet them 
when they are twenty-five and I twenty-eight we 
should be on a level, especially if we didn’t know. 

It’s the same with Ada and me. We are both 
grown up now and on the same footing, and I have 
to revolutionize my whole attitude toward her, for 
I have been grown up for years, while she was still 
a mere schoolgirl who didn’t count. Time by him- 
self produces more humorous situations than any 


FRIENDSHIP OR MARRIAGE? 103 

one else ; here, for instance, we two at tea together. 
A year ago Fd have laughed at the mere idea. 

But in a way I see a good deal of the boys. You 
see it is their first visit to Sydney, and Mrs. Haste 
wants them to see all there is, and as Gordon is away 
so much, she takes them about herself, and she gets 
me to go with her half the time to keep her company 
and make it livelier for them, for Ada is no use ; she 
can’t get away from her kindergarten till late in the 
afternoon. I get quite a deal of amusement out of it 
too, for they are a lively pair, but poor Mrs. Haste 
gets so wild when they tease me about Gordon. 

Yesterday we went to Manly for the afternoon. 
The boys wanted a bathe, so I went in too — it was a 
gorgeous day — and then we sat on the sand a while 
and browned ourselves. I never burn, so I don’t 
mind how much I sit in the sun, and there were not 
many people there. I showed the boys how to cross 
out their names on the sand and find out the feelings 
of their best girl toward them. You know the way, 
you say, “ Friendship, courtship, hatred, love, mar- 
riage,” with the letters that are left. 

Just fancy! the boys had never done it before. So 
I wrote Ada’s and Vane’s names, and it came to 
hatred both sides ; and would you believe it, he was 
quite disconsolate. So I told him I knew another 
way to do it, crossing them out only in couples, and 
we did it that way, and it came to marriage for Ada 
and courtship for him, and he was as pleased as could 
be ; and when I pointed out Ada seemed to have got 
on a bit farther than he, he looked at me in a queer 


104 


TIME O’ DAY 


sort of way and said he guessed if it was necessary 
he could soon catch up. 

I was only joking, but I shall have to be careful 
if he is going to think things like that. I thought it 
was just a boy and girl bit of nonsense ; Ada is far 
too young to think of marriage, and so is he. If the 
wind blows that way I shall stop helping them, but 
perhaps he didn’t mean it, and anyway they go back 
to Melbourne soon, and I suppose it will fizzle out 
then. 

Next we did Micky and his little girl in Melbourne, 
and it came out eminently satisfactory ; and then the 
sillies insisted on doing mine and Gordon’s, and it 
came to love on both sides, and I actually blushed, 
to their huge delight. What on earth made me do 
it, I can’t imagine ; I suppose their persistent teasing 
is beginning to make us both a bit self-conscious. 

But I do wish Mrs. Haste wouldn’t get so per- 
turbed, for it’s too absurd, if they knew ; there’s 
absolutely nothing in it. 

While we were sitting there who should come 
along but Dr. Philip — in bathing costume ? Oh, dear 
no ! He doesn’t approve of mixed bathing. His 
attire was most complete, and I believe when he saw 
us three he wouldn’t have minded adding a veil to 
his costume to hide his blushes. I do hate prigs, 
especially masculine ones. At first he just walked 
past and raised his hat, looking very disapproving. 
What business has he to disapprove of me anyway ? 
I felt so annoyed I laughed sweetly at some remark 
of Micky's which wasn’t more than usually absurd, 


FRIENDSHIP OR MARRIAGE 105 

and the laugh pursued him down the sand ; he 
walked a trifle faster. 

Both the boys sat up and looked after him. They 
looked dears in their bathing suits, with their hard- 
looking brown arms and legs. Men look nicer than 
girls in undress, I agree with Gordon. 

‘‘ Who’s your pal. Thyme ? ” Vane demanded. 
“ What a streak, worse than Micky.” 

”Lor’ bli’ me,” said the insulted Micky. They 
will use the most awful language just to shock peo- 
ple. They are very young. “ Don’t compare me to 
a dude like that. Why, his collar’s five feet high ! ” 
He’s got an eye for a figure anyway,” said Vane. 
” Look out. Thyme, Horace is coming back.” 

And sure enough come back he did, to my intense 
amazement. He stopped, too, as he reached us, 
looking as if he were swallowing a dose of his own 
physic, but he complimented us on our “ perspi- 
cacity ” or something (Micky nearly choked as he 
rolled it out) on choosing such a healthy method of 
spending such a lovely day. I never felt so ashamed 
in my life. I had to introduce the boys, of course, 
and they did nothing but giggle. I know Dr. Philip 
has rather a haw-haw English manner, but he’s quite 
nice underneath, and the kids’ amusement was simply 
barefaced. 

I was furious with them, so I suppose that was 
why I was lots nicer to him than I would have been 
otherwise. At any rate, he stayed quite a time talk- 
ing — he sat down on the sand with us, even. Im- 
agine the immaculate Dr. Philip in such riotous 


io6 


TIME DAY 


half-clad company 1 In fact, he stayed till I told him 
I was cold and was going to dress. 

He offered to motor me home, but I refused. 

When he had gone I spoke my mind to the kids, 
but they only laughed worse than ever. 

“ Great Scott ! ” said Vane, imitating Dr. Philip's 
pet ejaculation, couldn't you pick up anything 
better than that. Thyme ? Come over to Melbourne, 
old girl, and I'll find you a dozen better than him." 

And boxing their ears didn't do a bit of good. 

They kept bursting into insane giggles all the way 
home on the ferry. And Dr. Philip is not absurd at 
all; he was almost jolly yesterday, he only needs 
shaking up. 

But what I set out to write about was the tea. We 
met Ada after she got away from “ kindy," and all 
went into the teashop, and of course half Sydney was 
there — it always is. I felt horribly virtuous being 
there with the youngsters, because while I was shop- 
ping I refused to go with Mr. Wymondham, whom I 
met in Pitt Street. I don't dislike him quite as much 
as I used, at least I mean he can be amusing on oc- 
casions. He's malicious rather, and his stories are 
double-edged always. I feel he's bad inside, but I 
suppose as he goes everywhere it's not my affair. 

Gordon hates him, though. 

And half-way through the tea I happened to glance 
up toward the smoking-lounge the other side, and I 
saw, vanishing through the door, Mr. Wymondham 
and — guess, G.G.C. ! — Mr. Gale. 

I nearly fell off my seat. Wasn't it queer to see 


FRIENDSHIP OR MARRIAGE? 107 

him just then ? Of course he^s nothing to me or I to 
him, but I wonder if he saw me. If he’s got time to 
go to four o’clock with Mr. Wymondham, he could 
find time to ring me up. Of course they may have 
been talking business. But I don’t suppose he wants 
to see me again anyway. I don’t want to see him 
either, except I’d like to have the chance of giving 
him a nice snub. 

But I wonder, if I had accepted Mr. Wymondham’s 
invitation, would we have met him just the same? 
Why didn’t I say I’d go? Really, Thyme O’Dea, 
you’ve got no self-respect. But he was so nice, and 
I’m sure there’s a misunderstanding somewhere. 

Of all credulous asses ! 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE TRAGEDY OF DISILLUSION 

Heavens! we have had a busy day. Tm des- 
perately tired, so tired I don’t feel like bed. If I did 
go, I should stay awake for hours, so I think I’ll talk 
to you, G.G.C., and perhaps as I write I’ll get 
sleepy. I can hear Marje splashing round in her 
room ; she’s a perfect maniac for water, and washes 
about nineteen times a day. And I saw the light in 
Ada’s room go out ten minutes ago, and here’s me 
still talking. Marje says I’m an awful chatterbox, 
but some one’s got to do it, and she can take her 
share when she feels inclined. 

She had us in fits this morning when we were 
getting the lunch ready. We had the Premier and a 
couple of other Senators to lunch to-day, and mother 
had a bridge party in the afternoon, so you can guess 
we were occupied. Marje stayed home to-day to 
help us, and while she was sitting on the kitchen table 
beating up eggs for me she told Biddy and me about 
some of the women they visit. 

Many are most awfully grateful, but some almost 
resent the nurses trying to teach them. There’s one, 
Marje says, they are all a bit scared of. Her name 
is Mrs. George, and her baby’s name is Georgie 


THE TRAGEDY OF DISILLUSION 109 

George. He^s been sickly for a long time, and the 
doctor ordered him whey. 

“ For a few days,'^ Marje said, ‘‘ it seemed to suit 
him, and Mrs. George, who is a perfectly enormous 
woman, almost assaulted me with gratitude. I think 
she meant it for an embrace, but you could hardly 
have told the difference. 

“ ‘ Oh, nurse, ^ she said, ‘ Georgie do love ’is whey. 
E’d eat it all day if Fd let him.’ 

‘‘I thought this sounded suspicious, having had 
experience of her sort before, so I answered, ‘ Does 
he, Mrs. George? Well, tell me how you make it.’ 

“ ‘ Oh 1 ’ she said, ‘ with them tabloids you gave 
me. I just put one in a cup o’ water with a spoonful 
of condensed milk.’ 

‘‘Condensed milk, mind you,” Marje laughed. 
“ What are you to do with women like that ? And 
though I talked till I was tired, I couldn’t make her 
understand the enormity of it. So it’s no wonder 
she’s come to the conclusion that whey doesn’t agree 
with Georgie. I went along there again yesterday, 
and the poor mite looked dreadful. 

“‘Well, what are you giving him now you’ve 
stopped the whey, Mrs. George ? ’ I asked. And 
she answered with an ogreish glare : 

“ ‘ I’m givin’ ’im the blood o’ meat — yes, I am. 
The butcher told me as how he’d brought up his 
three on it, and I’m tryin’ it on my Georgie. He says 
there ain’t no nourishment in that there whey stuff 
you ordered, and if my Georgie’s got to die I’d sooner 
he died on a full stomach than an empty one. Oh, 


1 lO 


TIME O' DAY 


you needn't talk to me about your doctors. I 
wouldn’t ’ave that Doctor 'Allet’s conscience, that I 
wouldn’t. It’s my belief,’ she went on, dropping her 
voice, ‘ that ’e’s try in’ to make a record for 'imself in 
killin’ babies ; starvin’ ’em to death is 'is fancy. Well, 
I ain’t goin’ to 'ave my Georgie starved. If the 
Lord’s going to take 'im, I won’t stop 'im with whey, 
and if ’E ain’t — well. I’ll 'ave saved 'im.' ” 

Marje is full of little incidents like that if you can 
only get her going. She’s just crazy on nursing in 
any shape or form, and she used to talk about the 
fun it was so much when she was doing her course 
that she fired me with a desire to be one too. I even 
went into a hospital as a probationer, and stayed 
exactly three days ; then I came home. It was simply 
awful, I couldn’t stand it. There was a woman who 
used to scream. I can’t bear to see people suffering ; 
it seems to start a pain somewhere inside me. Marje, 
I suppose, is a born nurse, for it makes her calm and 
practical and interested at once. I believe she almost 
likes to see pain when she can do things for it ; it 
makes her feel so clever. 

Oh-h I Another yawn. I believe the sleepiness is 
beginning, but I'll go on a little longer. Oh, bother l 
I meant to ask Ada for a throat pastille before she 
went to bed. I made my throat sore to-night singing. 
I’ve had a slight cold for a week, and I shouldn’t 
have sung so much, but I was in at Ida’s, and she 
was very keen on it. I went in there to dinner. She 
asked me in casually as we were chatting over the 
fence down the garden. There was no one there 


THE TRAGEDY OF DISILLUSION iii 


except the brother-in-law and Mr. Wymondham. 
Certainly, Mr. Wymondham is good-looking even if 
a bit preserved. His eyes followed me about half the 
evening, and he went quite mad over my singing, 
or pretended to. I expect it was mostly pretense. 
I’ve only a small voice, though people say it’s sym- 
pathetic. 

He seemed quite sorry when they had to go. Ida 
turned them out soon after dinner ; she simply told 
them to go away and do anything they liked, as they 
were boring her to death. She’s awfully rude to 
men at times, but they seem to like it. I expect she 
makes up for it afterward, because they know quite 
well they don’t really bore her at all. I think her 
moods of petulance are half a pose. I told her so 
to-night after they had gone, but she only laughed. 

“I dare say they are,” she admitted. I suppose 
I do pose, but then so does every one : all mankind 
acts. I’m just cleverer at it than some, in fact I’ve 
reduced being any one but myself to a fine art, but 
where I differ from most people is I don’t pose to 
myself. Oh, no. Daytime, I have no illusions about 
myself.” 

It’s funny, isn’t it, she should call me Daytime too, 
like Mr. Gale did ? She has only started this last 
week or so. I think she must have been feeling 
rather blue to-night. At times she says the queerest 
things, a kind of darkness seems to fall over her eyes, 
and she looks miles and miles away. I think there 
must have been a real tragedy in her life somewhere, 
but when I once hinted at it she laughed and said, 


112 


TIME DAY 


“No more tragedy than I suppose is in every other 
being’s life: slow disillusion. No, life hasn’t treated 
me much worse than the next woman, and I suppose 
half of it was my own doing. I sometimes think. 
Daytime, that I was tired of life before I was born. I 
believe in reincarnation, you know.” 

“ Ida, you don’t ! ” I said. 

“ I wonder do I ?” she mused. “ I don’t know that 
I believe anything. Oh, don’t listen to me. Keep 
your faith in the goodness of life while you can. Day- 
time ; it’s a sweet and fair thing, and I love to see 
it, but I never had it, never. I suppose there are 
some of us on whom the eternal puzzle weighs more 
than others. It’s awful to be in the middle of any- 
thing, isn’t it? At the beginning you know where 
you are, and at the end, but in the middle, with the 
world around jostling and shoving ” 

She turned suddenly on me. “ Do you know what 
it is to have a heartache without a cause? To have 
a vague pain somewhere deep down in you that hurts 
most when you are merriest? I wonder do we lose 
our memory of sorrows in a past life, but keep the 
shadow and apprehension of them? Sometimes I 
could cry for sheer misery, and yet nothing out of 
the ordinary has happened. Dreams, perhaps,” she 
smiled reflectively. “ I used to have them once. Do 
you know. Thyme, once I dreamed of being a noble 
woman k la Jeanne d’Arc, elevating my fellow-men 
and women, keeping my tongue on noble discourse, 
and so forth, treating men as intelligent souls. Oh, 
me I” she laughed, “what a comical girl 1 must 


THE TRAGEDY OF DISILLUSION 113 

have been. Souls ! They soon taught me what they 
were and what I was for. I was a woman — that 
ended it. A woman, to be petted and patronized 
and caressed, a creature meant only to minister to 

their ends otherwise Do you ever hate yourself. 

Thyme ? ” 

“ No,^^ I said, “ I don^t think so. Why ? 

Ida laughed queerly. “ You’d think, to hear me 
talk of ideals, I was something special in the good- 
ness line, wouldn’t you ? Whereas — the awful thing. 
Thyme, is you slowly grow to be what they want you 
to be, and worse than that, you grow to want to be 
it. I wonder why I cumber the earth at times. I 
only live for myself, and even I don’t get much satis- 
faction out of it. Perhaps if I could stop thinking — 
I wonder. 

“ Selfishness is a horrible thing, isn’t it ? I’m quite 
selfish, but don’t you think most people are ? They 
try not to be. How many succeed ? It’s not the 
man who tries who gets anywhere, but the man who 
sets his jaw and says, * I’ll do it’ Trying is merely 
an ointment for the conscience. I don’t try; I’d 
scorn to. You see. Daytime, the task is so gigantic 
it needs a gigantic soul. Selfishness is our nature, 
the very core of our being ; to eradicate it you’ve got 
to overturn all your battlements and storied windows 
and the pretty gables of your life, and start laying 
the foundation stones again, painfully, one by one. 

“It’s a lifelong training. Amateurs in sport try, 
they train a little for the special race, but as soon as 
it’s over they take up their usual pleasures again. 


114 


TIME DAY 


But a professional must always be training, he must 
never be out of form ; and think — for his triumph in 
one department, what a host of enjoyments he has 
to relinquish. You see my meaning: there are 
thousands of amateurs in the game of goodness, but 
few have the courage to be professionals ; there is 
too much to give up. 

‘‘Am I boring you? I suppose that view of un- 
selfishness strikes one in a hundred. The other 
ninety-nine jog along contentedly, fancying they are 
progressing toward goodness as fast as God can 
reasonably expect ; and it’s no sin to them, I count, 
because they do not see they are sinning. But the 
hundredth — the hundredth. Daytime, chooses un- 
selfishness or self, and the hundredth is either saint 
or sinner. I chose years ago, and I am not the 
saint.” 

Mother and Maida are right off the track. I’m 
sure a woman who talked like that couldn’t be bad, 
could she? All the same, if my brother-in-law 
looked at me like hers does I’d give him one to go 
on with. But Ida seems to like them a bit wicked. 
I’m sure he must be wicked, because he and Gus 
Wymondham are bosom friends. He’s not a friend 
of Ida’s — Mr. Wymondham, I mean. Lance invites 
him there. In fact, Ida told me to-night she 
wouldn’t advise me to have much to do with him, 
and when I pointed out that she knew him pretty 
well she said, “ That’s different ; the only interest left 
in life is to play with fire.” 

“ What a pity you haven’t any children, Ida,” I 


THE TRAGEDY OF DISILLUSION 115 

said. But as soon as I had said it I wished I 
hadn’t, for her face grew quite hard and she said : 
^^His children ! You don’t know what you are talk- 
ing about.” 

I felt I had made the most awful break, and 
changed the subject hastily, but I don’t think she 
was really angry with me, for she kissed me good- 
bye in an apologizing manner, but I believe she 
must almost hate Mr. Lester. It’s rather awful, isn’t 
it, to hate your husband ? But I don’t wonder, the 
way he neglects her. And the more you loved him 
the more you’d hate him if he got indifferent. 
There’s nothing hurts so much. Don’t I know it? 
Thyme, you soft fool, you’re thinking of that man 
still. Well, you shall just go to bed this minute 
for a punishment ; you ought to be ashamed of 
yourself. I despise myself for ever wasting another 
thought on him. I dare say you despise me too, 
don’t you, G.G.C. ? 

And so does he, so there we are. 


CHAPTER XIV 

DR. PHILIP COMES TO TEA 


What do you think happened last Sunday ? I 
simply must write it down. I think it’s the hugest 
joke that’s happened for years. No, I can’t gurgle ^ 
It out in one breathless rush ; it’s too lovely for that. | 
Take a deep breath, G.G.C., fold your hands, close J 
your eyes, and when you are all patient, sympathetic i 
attention I’ll tell you. Oyez ! Oyez I 


Philip Harley Lawrance, B.A., B.Sc., M.D., 
Came round to our place Sunday to tea. 


Only afternoon tea, but I couldn’t put that in be- 
cause of the metre. And he invited himself, that’s 
the real joke. We all nearly fell off our chairs. We 
were having tea out on the lawn under the jacaranda 
trees— aren’t they lovely with their pale blue flowers ? 

w en Dr. Philip arrived. I love that spot. The 
arbor faces us from the other end, all grown over 
with jasmine and pink tecoma, and scarlet geraniums 
at the foot and along the hedge. I do love geraniums 
beside a lawn, don’t you ? There were several there, 
Gordon and Petermac and Hudson and a couple of 
kids belonging to Betty-college boys, you know- 
und, to crown all, Dolly Lawrance. 


DR. PHILIP COMES TO TEA 117 

Dolly’s face, when her brother came across the 
lawn, looking very stiff and ice-creamy and clever in 
his white suit, was a treat. She gave me one sharp 
look before she said, “ Why, Philip, I didn’t know 
you were coming.” 

I believe Dr. Philip was a wee bit put out at 
finding Dolly there (sisters are inconvenient at times, 
aren’t they ?), but he showed no signs of distress — 
that’s one advantage of having an expressionless 
face, isn’t it ? He replied that he didn’t know him- 
self, but he’d been out for a spin in his car, and as 
he was passing our gate he thought he’d drop in 
and see if Mrs. O’Dea would give him a cup of tea. 

Mother was pleased to see him. He’s going to 
make his mark, is Dr. Philip. He’s a specialist, you 
know, and has been studying for years in Berlin and 
Vienna and such places, and they say he’s invented 
or improved a new operation, and he will be quite 
rushed — in fact, he is now, although he has only 
been in his rooms a fortnight. Every one is talking 
about him, so mother was delighted he chose to in- 
vite himself to our place, and her manner was a little 
less cold than usual. She held out her hand, looking 
awfully young and graceful to be the mother of a 
mob like us, and said in a soft voice : 

“We are very pleased you came. Dr. Lawrance. 
Thyme, give the doctor a cup of tea.” 

She didn’t look at me as she spoke, but I knew 
what it meant. Mother’s clever as clever. Her eyes 
swept Marje and me as the doctor came across, and 
then she watched his face for a second and tabulated 


TIME O’ DAY 


118 

the situation in her mind. Her little speech was a clear 
order to me to make myself agreeable to Dr. Philip. 

I was sitting next to Gordon, enjoying myself, and 
I didn’t want to move, but none of us dare disobey 
mother, so I got up and looked after him as pleasantly 
as I could. I felt sulky at first, but I caught a glint 
in mother’s eye, and I hastily put a bit more warmth 
in my smile, and really, after a while, I enjoyed 
talking to him. He has a nice manner, even though 
it is a bit frozen, like mother’s, and I like being con- 
versed with on occasions as if I were clever and 
could understand things, though I dare say too 
much of it would get tiresome. 

Gordon got quite sniffy too when I laughed at 
some of the things Dr. Philip said. Once or twice 
he actually was amusing. When he puts on his 
professional manner he is a model of polished de- 
corum, and he is so used to it, for he has studied so 
hard for years — he rarely went in for the social side 
— that I think he finds it hard at times to be plain 
Philip Lawrance and forget he’s Dr. Philip, B.A., 
and the rest. But when you have been chatting 
with him a while he seems to thaw right out, and I 
do believe he could be positively funny if you got 
him on his own, but other people being around seem 
to make him remember now and again he’s Dr. 
Philip and the rest, and he stiffens up. Perhaps you 
could imagine him better if I told you Dolly and his 
mother always call him Philip in full. You couldn’t 
imagine him answering to Phil. 

But if it had been any one but Gordon I’d have 


DR. PHILIP COMES TO TEA 119 

believed he was a bit jealous. I wonder why Gor- 
don has never got sentimental, because we see a 
frightful lot of each other, and 1 know he is very 
fond of me. Perhaps we know each other too well. 
He has uncanny eyes, they see far too much, but I 
think rd trust him more than any one I know. 
You’d be surprised at the things I tell him. I’m 
surprised myself at times when I think it over. He 
teases me tremendously, but if I’m ever in a hole, 
you wouldn’t believe how sympathetic and helpful 
he is. I never knew a philosopher before, and some- 
times he’s aggravating. It is annoying, when you 
put on your coaxingest smile and ask for something, 
to have a man say critically, ** You’ve got a smut 
on the side of your nose. Thyme,” the smile appar- 
ently quite unnoticed. 

Sometimes for sheer pique I feel a wicked desire 
to make him fall in love with me, but that is a 
horrid, low, sneaking thing to say, isn’t it ? I didn't 
know I’d thought it even, not actually thought it, 
for feeling a thought and thinking it are degrees 
of infamy, aren’t they? Besides, it would spoil 
things so. 

And I don’t suppose I could do it anyway even if 
I tried. 

I asked his advice on Sunday about Max. It’s 
been worrying me a tiny bit lately once or twice, but 
it’s so awkward to know what to say. You see he’s 
never asked me to marry him point-blank, although 
sometimes he talks as if he had, but it’s rather a 
delicate thing to refuse a man before he does, isn’t 


120 


TIME DAY 


it ? So I explained it a bit to Gordon, though I felt 
horrid, as it was his own brother, and you can't 
imagine how nice he was about it. 

When I asked him what I’d better do, he said. 
Why, nothing." He said, as far as he could judge. 
I’d done nothing Max could lay hold of, and if he 
chose to fancy things it was his own lookout. A 
man ought to be able to stand a disappointment or 
two without getting sour, and finally I needn’t worry 
about Max in particular, for he wasn’t the sort to 
break his heart over any girl, and he’d soon get 
some one to fill my place. I could have boxed his 
ears. Isn’t he an old cat ? That’s the worst of him. 
Ask him for a dose of physic, and he rams a whole 
box of pills down your throat — without any sugar- 
coating either. I suppose I’m a mean little wretch ; 
it just shows the bad stuff we’re made of. I ought 
to feel awfully glad Max will soon be comforted, 
since I don’t want him myself, and as a matter of 
fact the idea ruffles me considerably. 

I wonder why a woman hates a man to stop lov- 
ing her even if she doesn’t love him ? It’s catty and 
absurd and mean, but we can’t help feeling insulted. 
You know I was quite irritated with Hudson and Fay 
on Sunday. To sit there seeing him looking at Fay, 
and jumping up and doing things for her, and trail- 
ing around in her wake exactly as he used to for 
me, when Fay had skirts up to her knees — I felt 
several times I could have boxed his ears with joy, 
especially as Betty grinned at me whenever they 
looked particularly absorbed in each other, and I’m 


DR. PHILIP COMES TO TEA 


121 


sure she explained the delights of the situation to her 
college boys. 

I was quite pleased after a bit that Dr. Philip had 
come ; it reinstated me in my own and the family^s 
eyes, even Betty was mildly impressed, for of course 
Gordon doesn’t count. I went round the garden 
with him after a bit and showed him the fernhouse — 
Dr. Philip, not Gordon. He has asked me to go for 
a motor drive with him next Friday evening ; it will 
be moonlight. Dolly and some one else will come 
too. I believe he would have asked me to go out 
that afternoon if Dolly hadn’t been there. I believe 
it’s what he came round for. 

' Dolly asked me if I had seen Mr. Gale lately. I 
replied very calmly and sweetly, ** No, I don’t think 
I have. I’m not often in town now. Have you ? ” 

Dolly had to admit she hadn’t either. She said he 
was in Melbourne. She tried to give me the impres- 
sion he had told her he was going, but I found out 
later from Dr. Philip he had met him on his way to 
the train. Dr. Philip said it was his mother who was 
ill this time. He is very fond of Bob — “ Copper,” he 
calls him — he says he’s a thoroughly straight fellow 
and tremendous good company. I know he’s that. 

Of course if his mother’s ill I can understand how 
girls were put out of his head, but still I don’t sup- 
pose he’ll bother about me even when he gets back, 
if he isn’t back already. It’s too long now ; he 
couldn’t ring up. 

Oh well, some people are fools. 

Your great-grandmother for one. 


CHAPTER XV 


THE ETHICS OF PRUDERY 

Oh, dear! things that are awfully jolly are awfully 
rotten when there’s no one there you care about — 
rottener because they ought to be so jolly, if you can 
understand. 

I mean to-day’s picnic. 

Everything was perfect if The day was a 

perfect day for a picnic, just warm and yet not hot, 
sunny, and just enough cloud to temper it to a lazy 
blue ; the horses were fresh ; the tennis courts were 
in the sweetest, shadiest nook, with big tree-ferns and 
the greenest grass, and there was just enough — a 
small party of us, twenty-five all told, and all jolly 
sorts — and I did enjoy it in a way, I suppose. Oh, 
yes, I suppose I did, but 

It’s funny how you get used to being made a fuss 
over almost without noticing it. I’ve somehow got 
into the habit of taking it for granted. Everywhere I 
go, I matter very much to somebody ; but to-day I 
didn’t, and I didn’t like it one bit. I must be con- 
ceited after all, for it really hurt. You see, all the 
mob were rather pals, and they were not quite my 
particular lot, though I knew most of them, and I felt 
the tiniest bit out of it. None of the boys liked me 
particularly, and, though of course I had some one 


THE ETHICS OF PRUDERY 123 

all the time and even coming home, I felt dull. I 
didn't want to talk to him. 

Now if Bob had been there, or even Gordon I 

I got most of my amusement out of watching the 
kids. They spread themselves out and no mistake ; 
they did enjoy it. They were both there, and Ada 
and Fay too. You see it was really a kind of family 
party the Coles gave to the youngest girl, Mabel, 
who has just come out, and as they are our oldest 
friends they asked nearly the lot of us. Fred came 
too, but he didn't seem to fancy any of the girls there 
either. But Vane had a great time, and I think Ada 
enjoyed herself too, though she came to me once and 
said pettishly : 

** For goodness’ sake take him away and lose him. 
Thyme ; he's making everybody laugh.” 

But I knew she didn’t want me to really, although 
she may have honestly thought she did ; she’s not 
old enough yet to be always able to distinguish what 
she wants from what she only thinks she wants. 
Gordon taught me. Vane’s quite satisfied with the 
way things are going and perfectly convinced Ada is 
the one girl in the world for him, was, is, or ever 
shall be, amen, and when he goes back to Melbourne 
they’ll correspond until he has enough money for 
them to be married. And your great-grandmother, 
with all her accumulated experience of the change- 
ableness of men, smiles sympathetically and, like the 
famous parrot, says nothing hard, and continues to 
keep on saying nothing, whereby she gains much 
gratitude and honor from Micky, Vane and Co. 


124 


TIME DAY 


But although Vane has interested Ada’s pride, I 
don’t think he has succeeded very far in awaking 
her feelings, or maybe she feels different from me ; 
I don’t think he’s ever gotten a kiss out of her with 
all his devotion. Micky jeers at him loudly for it. 
There’s nothing of the worship at a distance style 
about Micky, and he says so. 

They argue it out in front of me often, and I never 
even smile. 

“ Pooh,” Micky said heatedly one morning, after a 
lengthy discussion, “ you don’t know one thing about 
girls, you old melon. Catch me sitting by a girl’s side 
half a mile away, like I saw you last night, as if you 
were afraid you’d catch fire if you got an inch closer. 
You ought to put your arm round her before she 
has time to say you mustn’t, and if she objects, kiss 
her at once, the arm won’t seem worth making a fuss 
about after that. Am I not right. Thyme ? ” 

Micky knows far too much about girls for twenty. 

“Rats!” said the badgered Vane. “You may 
know one sort of girl ” 

“Well, there is only one sort,” Micky interposed. 

“ Oh, shut your head 1 ” Vane snapped. “ Look 
here. Thyme, do you reckon Ada would let me kiss 
her ? I don’t.” 

“Well, Vane,” I said, “you ought to know more 
about it than I do.” 

“ But honest now,” Vane waved my hedging aside, 
“just for the sake of argument. Don’t you think 
she’d never speak to me again ? You keep quiet,” 
to the disdainful Micky, “I’m talking to Thyme. 


THE ETHICS OF PRUDERY 125 

Put it another way,” the seeker after knowledge 
went on. “ Suppose it was you, and a fellow you^d 
only known as little as Ada has me, wouldn^t you 
give him what for if he started on you ? ” 

Vane’s gaze was entirely innocent of offense, it 
expressed nothing but academic interest in the ques- 
tion, and I suddenly laughed. I laughed and 
laughed till the tears gathered in the corners of my 
eyes and the boys stared in amazement, but it struck 
me as so suddenly funny — Thyme O’Dea, arbiter of 
the ethics of prudery 1 I chuckle over it at minutes 
still. I’m saving it up to tell Gordon. 

But Micky is not satisfied. He said to me later 
in an aside, “ Look here, Thyme, of course he 
wouldn’t tell us if he had, but do you reckon he 
hasn’t kissed her ? ” 

** Seriously, Micky,” I replied, as I thought of 
Ada’s sarcasms against me, “ I reckon he has not.” 

“ Well,” said Micky as he swaggered off, I bet 
she thinks him dead slow then.” 

That is how men who treat women as a class suc- 
cessfully for nine cases bungle sadly on the tenth. 

But I can laugh at Micky too now, for he has had 
his heart slightly damaged by Fay. The accident 
occurred at the picnic, I suppose, because Hudson 
wasn’t there, and Micky was about the handsomest 
boy present, and Mabel Coles showed signs of appre- 
ciating him. Fay is a little beggar that way — any- 
thing she sees any other girl wants acquires instant 
value in her eyes ; and as she is as lovely as they 
make them, and entirely Micky’s style, he rhapso- 


126 


TIME DAY 


dized about her to me next day almost as fervently 
as Vane, more noisily anyway. He came riding his 
bike, or rather Gordon’s, round the lawn next morn- 
ing while I was sitting on it drying my hair, and 
started whooping like a wild Indian, interspersing 
his shouts with such remarks as “ She’s a boshter I ” 
The out-and-outest that ever was ! ” Isn’t she a 
ripper. Thyme ? ” 

Of course I was not indelicate enough to mention 
the little Melbourne girl, but it seemed Vane had no 
such scruples. However, he told me Micky is keep- 
ing an open mind on the subject. He doesn’t see 
why a girl in Melbourne should interfere with one in 
Sydney or vice versa. Vane thinks his outlook 
wanting in uprightness. 

But I suppose most men would agree with Micky. 


CHAPTER XVI 


IDA’S SECRET 

I’M not the only person with troubles. Poor Ida’s 
are worse than I ever guessed : her husband drinks. 
Of course I knew he did a bit — I saw the taxi-driver 
helping him up the path one night — but I supposed 
he only did it on occasions, like most men ; but Ida 
told me to-night he’s a habitual drunkard, he’s 
scarcely ever sober. In fact he never is completely ; 
he’s just more or less drunk. And you’d never think 
to look at him — at least I never would, but perhaps 
that’s why he speaks so little and so slowly. No 
wonder Ida is glad she has no children. 

Oh ! what a ghastly thing to live with day after 
day and year after year. It would drive me mad. I 
couldn’t bear it. And she goes on bravely and never 
lets people know. She’s fine and loyal to him ; she 
bears it all by herself. All this time she’s never 
breathed a word about it to me, and I don’t suppose 
I’d have ever found out if I hadn’t happened to go 
in to-night. 

I remembered just after dinner I’d promised her 
the recipe for a new sweet I’d been trying, and as it 
was bright moonlight I just picked it up and slipped 
through the side gate up to her house. There was 
no one about and the hall door was open, so I ran 


28 


TIME O’ DAY 


up-stairs to her room. I suppose I went quickly, 
and that must be why I didn’t hear anything till I 
got to the top. Her boudoir just faces the staircase, 
so I couldn’t retreat, but I felt horribly embarrassed, 
for I saw Ida lying on the floor sobbing like any- 
thing, and Lance Lester was bending over her pat- 
ting her shoulder and trying to quiet her. Really 
they might have thought to shut the door, for if any 
of the servants had come up, heaven knows what 
they would have thought. Perhaps they had 
been up. 

I felt a terrible fool standing there, but he had 
seen me, so I had to go on. “ I beg your pardon, 
Ida,” I said, “ but I — I thought I’d run up with the 

recipe you wanted. I’ in sorry I ” I stopped, 

not knowing what to say next, and Lance Lester 
broke in hastily : 

“Thank you, Miss O’Dea, but Ida’s rather upset 
to-night. She’ll explain to-morrow and ” 

But here Ida interrupted, sobbing, “ No, let her 
come in and see. Come in. Thyme, and see what it 
is to have a brute for a husband. No, Lance, I will 
say it,” as he bent down and tried to whisper some- 
thing. She sat up, and her face was all distorted 
with crying and her eyes just blazed. “ I’ve held my 
tongue and held it,” she cried passionately, “ and 
this is what I get for it, this : he put his foot through 
the face of the only thing I ever loved. Oh, Maisie, 
Maisie ! ” and she fell to sobbing again ; and then I 
saw she was holding a crumpled picture in her hands 
and kissing it. 


IDA'S SECRET 


129 

Lance spoke to me in a low aside. “ If s her sis- 
ter/’ he explained. Ida worshiped her, and she 
died years ago. Lester — well,” he shrugged his 
shoulders and made a little gesture, ” since you’re 
here you can see for yourself; he’s been on the 
rampage.” 

And then I really looked at the room, and saw it 
was almost in ruins : the chairs were all overturned, 
and the curtains torn, and every picture was down 
off the wall with its glass broken. Ida had cut her- 
self with a piece from her sister’s photograph, and 
the blood was trickling down her arm, and some of 
it had got on her face. She looked dreadful and 
she still sobbed. 

“But — but what made him do it?” I asked 
dazedly. 

Ida lifted her head and laughed a fierce kind of 
laugh. “What made him do it?” she echoed. 
“ What always makes him do it over and over till 
I’m sick and weary of life and the bondage of it ? 
He was drunk — that’s what made him do it. Thyme. 
Drunk, as he always is week in and week out ; and 
he stamped on my Maisie, my little Maisie. Oh, I 
won’t bear it any longer ! I won’t, Lance ; I won’t, 
I tell you.” 

I stood there feeling as if the room were whirling 
round me. I didn’t seem able to grasp it so quickly, 
but Lance went over and tried to soothe her, and 
after a while she grew quieter and we got her up, 
and I took her into her bedroom, while Lance 
stayed behind and gathered up the glass and re- 


130 


TIME DAY 


hung the pictures ; they didn’t want the maids to see 
the mess. And by the time I got her into bed she 
was nearly herself again, only every time she looked 
at the crumpled portrait of her sister the tears would 
start again. I wouldn’t have believed Ida could love 
any one so. But Lance told me later their mother 
had died when the younger girl was born, and though 
they soon had a stepmother, Ida had really brought 
her up, and had never quite got over her loss. 

I sat by her when she felt better, and she apolo- 
gized to me for letting me see what had happened, 
though it was an accident, not her fault, and then 
she told me about his always being like that. She 
said he had been so for years, but he wasn’t always 
violent, and generally she could manage him, but 
to-night he had started smashing up the place be- 
fore she could get to him. I don’t see how a bit of 
a thing like she is could manage such a huge man if 
he got angry, but when I said that she smiled queerly 
and said she could quiet him always. 

“You won’t tell any one, will you. Daytime? ” she 
said. “ I can’t bear people to know. It’s my own 
trouble, and I can’t endure pity ; I don’t want it. I 
can scrape along. Don’t tell your people, will you ? 
and try to forget it 5^ourself.” 

I promised to try, but I know I never shall. No 
wonder they have Mr. Lester’s brother living with 
them. I should think Ida would be scared to be in 
the house alone with her husband. Poor girl I No 
wonder she is so queer and bitter at times. She does 
say strange things. She talked a lot before she would 


IDA’S SECRET 


131 

let me go. She didn’t seem to want to be left alone, 
but when I offered to stay and sleep with her she 
wouldn’t let me. She said her husband might want 
her in the night, and anyway she had Lance. 

“You poor old dear,” I said as I kissed her. 
“ Oh, Ida, you don’t deserve this.” 

She laughed. “ Who knows,” she said ; “ perhaps 
I do. Perhaps it’s my cross — crosses are supposed 
to be good for people, aren’t they ? — but I shouldn’t 
say mine had mellowed me much, would you. 
Thyme ? I often wonder whether it’s my own fault 
I’ve had an unhappy life, or if it is my fate or just 
my disposition. I’ve always kicked. I never could 
accept things because they were so, and life’s hard 
on rebels, perhaps rightly. Who knows ? And yet 
there’s a queer joy in pain at times, a kind of exalta- 
tion to feel you are raised above the common herd 
even by suffering, a sort of pharisaical pride that 
you are not on the happy level of other men. I 
often think it was just this pride that inspired the 
anchorites and martyrs. Perhaps it’s just pride that 
makes me cover up Lester like this and stick to him. 
I suppose it is ; it certainly isn’t love, and I hardly 
think it’s pity, and yet” — she smiled a mournful 
little smile, not the kind I’d ever expect to see on 
her — “ I loved him once. Oh, what a hell is in just 
memory. Thyme! Lester and I loved each other 
once, and yet when I tell you so it seems unbeliev- 
able, as if I were speaking about two friends I once 
knew. For the Lester I loved is dead, and the me 
that loved him is dead too.” 


TIME DAY 


132 

She was silent a while and her hand gripped me 
hotly. “ ‘ Divine discontent/ she said after a little. 
** He was great, the man who found that phrase, 
wasn't he. Daytime? The trouble is it's so often 
confounded with liver complaint. Oh, Daytime, I 
must laugh, or I shall cry again, and I never cry — 
to-night was the first time for years." 

‘‘ Ida," I said, ‘‘ I wonder you can bear it." 

I wonder I can myself at times. But there are 
things you've got to bear, just got to. Thyme. 
You’ll find it out some day perhaps, though I hope 
you won’t. We’re all bound, free as we seem, and 
women are the worse bound of the two. Our very 
sex binds us. We fetter ourselves because of it, be- 
cause we are taught we should. To my mind the 
only brave woman in the whole of history was Ninon 
de I’Enclos, because she dared to be herself. When 
she learned the inequality of women and men she 
cried indignantly, ^ De ce moment je ne suis faite 
homme' and she lived up to her declaration. It’s 
we women who are to blame, though. We are the 
judges, and — we decide as the men will us to decide. 
We forgive them drunkenness, infidelity — they hate 
both in women, so we condemn it pitilessly in each 
other. I hate women. Daytime; they’re a com- 
pound of bully and coward, bully to their own sex, 
cringers to the men. Oh, I hate them — because I 
am one. There, that's small and catty enough for a 
true woman, isn't it ? Why should I be catty ? Why 
should we all be catty by nature? We are, you 
know. It doesn't seem fair flesh and blood should 


IDA^S SECRET 


133 


play such a part in our lives : how much is me, really 
me, and how much inherited female instinct ? Oh, 
the patronage of man is insufferable enough, but 
Nature’s patronage is worse. She made us weaker 
and gave us all the hardnesses of life and — beauty, 
charm, you say. Well, aren’t they just incense to 
man’s power? When I use my charm to wheedle 
anything out of a man, don’t I despise myself for 
it ? It enrages me to think I can’t claim it on equal 
ground. I’ve despised myself worse than heaven 
can ever despise me. I’m glad I’ve forestalled them. 
If they disapprove, it’s a comfort to know they are 
only endorsing my own opinion.” 

” Ida I ” I said. I did think this was going a bit 
strong, but she gave a little shrug. 

” Oh, I dare say I’m becoming blasphemous, but 
I’m honest, and so one counterbalances the other. 
All the great thinkers of the world — Plato, Buddha, 
Mahomet, Christ — have been men : why are there 
women at all, I want to know ? It’s not fair to have 
half humanity inferior.” 

“ But,” I said, remembering some of dad’s maxims, 
“ there’s no such thing as equality in Nature. Look 
at wealth ” 

“ This isn’t an economical question. Rich or poor, 
a woman is man’s inferior.” 

“Well, would you have all tigers in the world and 
no deer ? ” 

“ Not,” she said, “ if I were a tiger. I suppose if 
I had been a man I should have thought women a 
highly estimable institution. That’s what the aver- 


»34 


TIME DAY 


age man at the back of his mind regards us as, you 
know — just an institution. Ah, well ” — she stopped 
herself impatiently — “ you’d better go now, or your 
people will be wondering what is keeping you. 
Good-night, and send Lance to me as you go.” 

I found him in the smoking-room, and told him 
Ida wanted him, and he went up-stairs, but — of 
course it’s all right, but — yes, I can’t help it, I don’t 
think it’s very nice of Ida to talk to him when she’s 
in bed, do you ? Of course she had a jacket on, and 
he’s her brother-in-law, and some people are more 
Bohemian than others — anyway it’s none of my 
business ; but it’s not very wise of her, for servants 
see everything, and I suppose it’s things like that 
getting round that are making people talk, for 
Mrs. Haste was talking to mother about her only 
yesterday. 

But sitting here in my own room it seems just 
fantastic that there are dreadful things like that hap- 
pening next door. Our houses look so quiet and 
respectable. 


CHAPTER XVII 


BOB GALE RETURNS 

It^S a blazing day, one of those corkers that make 
you think civilization isn’t what it’s cracked up to 
be, and that a savage lounging under a palm tree 
“ mid noddings on” has, like Mary, chosen the better 
part. Not that I’m in Pitt Street rig myself. I am 
clad simply and gracefully (at least I hope so) in a 
Canadian bathing suit and a kimono ; when I get to 
my own room it’s plain bathing suit. Mother has 
retired to her bedroom and announced she’s not at 
home, though I don’t suppose any one would be 
insane enough to visit on a day like this — it’s 103° in 
the shade. Fay and Ada are dressed something like 
me, and Betty’s in a pair of pink silk pajamas. She 
does look a cut, but they are her latest fad; she 
won’t wear nightgowns. 

I’m afraid we’re in for a heat wave. The flies are 
swarming in to every cool corner, around the front 
door and along the veranda roof they are like a 
hive of nasty buzzing things ; I hate them. It’s 
even too hot to eat. I’ve had practically nothing 
but stewed fruit for three days ; the sight of meat 
turns me sick. Marjoram lives on cucumbers and 
tomatoes and potato salad, and mother refuses to 
touch anything but junket; but it doesn’t matter, 


TIME O’ DAY 


136 

summer things are all easy to make. Biddy and I 
get up early and concoct the day’s menu about 
6 A. M. 

From about five to eight is the only part of the 
day when you can breathe. Ada was up at five this 
morning ironing in her nightgown ; she said it was 
the coolest way to get through it. It’s part of the 
general cussedness of things that the very kind of 
weather that makes you disinclined to be energetic 
is the kind that gives you twice as much work as 
usual. You can imagine the amount of washing and 
ironing in our household with six women in it living 
in white frocks. 

The weather has been warming up for four or five 
days now. Poor dad will be soon in the hospital if 
it doesn’t slacken off a bit ; he’s so fat, you know, 
poor angel. If you didn’t die laughing you’d have to 
weep to see the dear old mountain, with as little on 
as decency permits, mopping at his streaming face 
and cursing softly and enthusiastically whenever 
Smith brings the car round to take him to the House. 
The things he says about collars and the man who 
invented them are enough to make them crumple 
up ; however, the collars do almost as soon as they 
get on dad’s neck. He feels the heat dreadfully. 
For the last few nights he’s been camping down- 
stairs in the underground billiard room ; he says it’s 
cooler than outside. But I don’t think underground 
rooms are healthy myself, although we have a big 
lounging room next door the billiards we girls all 
camp in if it gets too hot to live. 


BOB GALE RETURNS 


137 

I think the triplets are playing cards there now. 
rd go myself, but I want to write, and they make 
such a noise one can't hear oneself think. If you 
find any grease-spots on the paper, great-grandchil- 
dren, please excuse them ; they are bits of me melt- 
ing off, and I can't afford to lose any more now, or, 
as Gordon says. I’ll be getting scraggy. However, 
when I went to the door just now I felt the wind was 
veering round to the east, so perhaps we'll get a cool 
change to-night. We felt so disgusted too : Maida 
had a letter from her brother yesterday who's in 
South Australia, and he said they're having it as 
cool as cool. I can’t see why the weather man’s got 
a particular spite against Sydney. Jack says it 
ought to comfort us to remember the whole world 
isn't melting, but I don't find it does a bit. When- 
ever we complain of the heat he says, ‘‘Just think 
how freezing Mawson and his party must be at the 
Pole, and the poor Esquimaux all wrapped up in 
their furs." 

But it makes me hotter to think of furs anywhere. 

I'm glad it wasn't as hot as this the night Dr. 
Philip took us out ; I do look a sketch when my face 
is all shiny with perspiration. It was tremendously 
jolly. We took a hamper with us and made “ billy ” 
tea on the roadside. We started at six, and got home 
soon aften ten. There were just four of us, but you'll 
never guess who the fourth was, G.G.C. Have a try. 
Dr. Philip and me and Dolly and — you never will — 
Mr. Gale. 

Aren't you gasping ? I did. When the motor 


TIME O’ DAY 


138 

toot-tooted round for me I just vaguely saw three 
figures in the car, for Dr. Philip drove himself, but I 
only glanced at Dolly’s escort as I went to climb in. 
I didn’t suppose I knew the man from Adam, and 
then Dr. Philip said, ‘‘You’ve met Mr. Gale, haven’t 
you ? ” and Dolly grinned at me triumphantly from 
.beside him. 

I didn’t know what to make of the situation. I 
was astounded. I don’t in the least remember how I 
behaved, but I suppose I nodded and assented — it’s 
wonderful how mere social training stands by you 
at a crisis. When you’ve absolutely lost your wits 
it comes to your aid, and quite mechanically you 
find yourself doing and saying the right thing. 

But I was silent for quite several minutes after we 
started, trying to adjust my mind. Fortunately, Dr, 
Philip’s whole attention was centred on driving the 
motor, which wasn’t inclined to “ mote,” but presently 
he apologized for his neglect and began to talk about 
I’ve no idea what, for all the time I was saying 
“ Yes ” and “ No ” to him I was wondering how long 
Mr. Gale had been back from Melbourne and whether 
he really was keen on Dolly after all and how on 
earth I should treat him when the car stopped. 

He seemed to be enjoying himself behind too. 
Dolly was giggling every two seconds, though she 
may have only done it to aggravate me — girls some- 
times do. Now and again his laugh came with 
hers ; but we only caught an unintelligible murmur, 
and if there’s one thing more irritating than another 
it’s to hear a conversation you can’t understand when 


BOB GALE RETURNS 


139 

you’d like to. After one specially prolonged chuckle 
from the two of them, Dr. Philip said : 

“Copper and Dolly seem to have some joke 
between them.” 

I murmured something vague out of the depths of 
my veil and he went on : 

“ I am glad Copper could come, the run will do 
him good. He’s not been very well lately ; he has 
been sticking too close to business, I fear, and on top 
of that he has had serious illness in his family.” 

“ Dolly told me,” I said. “ Is his mother better ? 
Has he been back long ? ” 

“ Only a few days,” Dr. Philip replied, dodging 
suddenly round a wagon. “Yes, she is on the road 
to recovery, I believe.” 

“ And — and you asked him to come ? ” I pursued 
as carelessly as I could. “ I didn’t know he was a 
friend of yours. I knew of course that Dolly knows 
him very well.” 

“Friend,” Dr. Philip echoed, “I should think so. 
We were chums at Scotch together, and he was al- 
ways at our house when we lived in Melbourne. He 
was the first fellow I looked up when I got home 
this time. I am glad for my part he has been moved 
to Sydney.” 

“ But he is young to have such a responsible 
position, isn’t he ? ” I hazarded to make him go on 
talking. 

“ He is rather, but Copper has a shrewd head. His 
father is as hard-headed a business man as you’ll find 
in all Australasia, who keeps family sentiment in its 


140 


TIME DAY 


proper place, and since Copper holds this position it 
means he’s worth it, not merely that he is his father’s 
son.” 

** Yes ? ” I said, with a big interrogation mark. 
But Dr. Philip had evidently had enough of Mr. 
Gale, and started on radium, so all I had to do was 
look astonished and say “ Oh I ” at decent intervals. 

But I was so glad it was at Dr. Philip’s invitation 
he came, and not Dolly’s. 

Then we stopped and had supper on the roadside. 
It was fantastic with the fire licking up around the 
billy and making alternate splotches of red and 
shadow on our faces. We didn’t get a chance to 
speak to each other beyond commonplaces, for Dolly 
was a spider — all eyes, but as we got out of the car 
he came up with his hand out to me and said : 

May I say good-evening now, Miss O’Dea” — his 
red-brown eyes stared straight into mine for half a 
second as he added, “ if you haven’t forgotten me?” 

** Very nearly. I’m afraid,” I answered lightly as 
I drew my hand away ; but I couldn’t help my eyes 
dancing, for Dolly was keeping a close watch on us, 
and when anything appeals to my sense of humor 
I can’t be cross no matter how much cause I’ve got, 
and it did seem absurd to be talking with a sous- 
entendu to a man I disliked because a girl was jealous 
of him. 

But he was pretty clever at the game. He wasn’t 
silly enough to try any whispers or low asides with 
Dolly’s eye on us. He just said quite loudly and 
cheerfully as he gathered up the rugs : 


BOB GALE RETURNS 


141 


** There, forgotten in a few weeks’ absence I You 
are more truthful than polite, I’m afraid. Well, I 
must just try not to give you another chance, that’s 
all.” 

“ The absence may not have been the essential 
ingredient,” I said as we sat down by the fire. 

He made a grimace. “ Oh, you are too bad,” he 
said. “ Please, my punishment is greater than I 
deserve. Pip,” he added, turning to Dr. Philip, 
“ you know a lot of anatomy or surgery or some- 
thing. Can you tell me why women’s hearts are 
harder than men’s ? ” 

Dr. Philip laughed like anything as he looked up 
from struggling with a tin of sardines. ** What non- 
sense is he talking to you now. Miss O’Dea?” he 
asked. “ Don’t mind him ; he’s always like that. 
And see if you can do anything with these sardines, 
there’s a good fellow ; my surgery, as you call it, 
doesn’t seem to impress them much.” 

‘‘ Miss O’Dea and I,” he said as he obediently took 
the tin, ** are having a philosophical argument as to 
the truth of the aphorism that absence makes the 
heart grow fonder. Miss O’Dea doubts it. What 
do you think, Pip ? ” 

I nearly expired every time he said it. Fancy 
calling Dr. Philip Pip I But he answers to it quite 
cheerfully ; it seems unbelievable the doctor was ever 
a boy. 

“ I think,” he retorted, ** you had better confine 
your attention to those sardines and leave philo- 
sophic questions alone, and as far as you are con- 


142 


TIME O’ DAY 


cerned, Copper, I should imagine proximity would 
be a stronger spur to you than absence.’^ 

“ Pip,” Mr. Gale said solemnly, as he threw a 
piece of bread at him, “ you are a faithless friend 
and an unmitigated rotter. Don^t you take his 
estimate of my character. Miss O’Dea, judge me at 
first hand.^^ 

“ Granted the opportunity,” I said lightly, “ per- 
haps. Please pass the butter.” 

“ Oh, I shall see you have,” he answered in the 
same jesting tone, but he gave me a look with it that 
said he meant it. 

Dolly was suspicious, though I don’t think she 
quite followed ; indeed, it would have been hard for 
any one not in the know, wouldn’t it ? and of course 
Dr. Philip thought we were just jesting. We had 
quite some fun sitting there, the four of us. I think 
two men who are fond of each other are nicer to- 
gether than apart, and you could see Dr. Philip and 
he think a heap of each other. Dolly was inclined 
to be sulky at first, with occasional spurts into the 
conversation to outshine me, but I was just merry, 
and the ball rolled along without greasing. 

We got talking about Alice in Wonderland. Dr. 
Philip said at times I reminded him of Alice, I 
looked so elfin and dreamy and naughty — imagine 
Dr. Philip admiring anything naughty I — so Bob 
suggested we should all make up a rhyme about 
Alice and the Lobster. We all protested we 
couldn’t, but he insisted, and when you’re out on 
the loose you feel so mad you do anything, and we 


BOB GALE RETURNS 


H3 


finally tried. They were all more or less awful of 
course. Mine was the more. Dr. Philip’s was 
good, or would have been if he could have thought 
of a last line, but he took too hard a word to rhyme. 
His went : 


** A lobster was once asked by Alice 
If it wanted to live in a palace, 

The lobster said ‘ Yes, 

Oh, rather, I guess ’ ” 

He said he simply couldn’t think of another line, 
so Bob suggested : 

** ‘ But I think I can do in my shell-case.* ’* 

But it isn’t a real rhyme, is it ? 

Bob said he would have to give the prize to him- 
self after all. His was really clever, and when he 
read it I knew why he had suggested the game. It 
ran : 


Alice said to the lobster, ‘ Monsieur, 

I’d no notion that you would be here.* 

The lobster said, * True, 

But I came to see you. 

Let us lunch and I’ll make all things clear.* *’ 

Dolly and Dr. Philip applauded it mightily, but I 
felt rather stupid, for he looked at me quickly under 
his lashes again in that way he has, and I knew it 
was a message to me. 

Isn’t it wonderful what a lot of talking you can do 
without opening your lips ! 


144 


TIME O’ DAY 


And just as we were getting into the car to go 
back Dr. Philip called Dolly for a second, and he 
said quickly as he helped me on with my coat : 

“ Did you understand ? 

“You couldn’t have known,” I answered in the 
same cautious way, for Dolly had one eye and ear 
cocked on us. 

“ Pip told me when he asked me to come.” 

“ Why didn’t you ring up ? ” I murmured. Then 
aloud for Dolly’s benefit, “ Please hold it out while I 
push my collar down.” 

He, holding the coat out as requested, “ I had 
been away so long I was afraid you might think it 
cheek. I hadn’t time before. Are you very angry ? ” 

“ I’m not sure.” Aloud, “ Thank you.” 

“ May I ring up and see? ” as Dolly joined us. 

I nodded. I couldn’t very well do anything else, 
could I ? It was only fair to hear his explanation, if 
he had one, and he certainly couldn’t make it in 
front of Dolly — she didn’t give us a chance of an- 
other word. He had to get in the back beside her, 
and I with Dr. Philip in the front. But I felt quite 
different going home from coming out. I didn’t mind 
his being with Dolly a bit, for I knew he was think- 
ing of me and wishing he could change places, and 
that’s such a comfortable lovely feel for a woman to 
have. 

I didn’t even want to talk to him, I felt so secure, 
and as they put me down at the gate I shook hands 
with him and Dr. Philip and kissed Dolly. We 
never even exchanged a surreptitious glance ; he 


BOB GALE RETURNS 


H5 

just put a slight meaning in his eyes as he touched 
my hand and said pleasantly : 

“ Good-bye, Miss O'Dea, I am glad to have met 
you again.” 

But if Dolly had understood all that had passed 
between us that evening wouldn’t she have been 
furious? After all, I believe thoughts can talk to 
each other, don’t you ? for we’d hardly exchanged a 
dozen sentences, and yet I knew plainly that he 
liked me very much and wanted to see me again, 
and would not have come out if I had not been go- 
ing, and Dolly was less than nothing to him, and he 
wanted awfully to be friends. 

But Dolly wasn’t on to the telepathy part, and she 
drove away quite complacent. 

He rang up the next day and asked if the white 
flag was still flying, but we couldn’t say much, for 
the triplets were hovering round — that’s the worst of 
having a telephone in the passage. He guessed at 
something of the sort from the guardedness of my 
replies, I suppose, for he said suddenly : 

“ Is there any one listening your end ? ” 

“ Rather,” I answered feelingly, without thinking, 
and then we both laughed, and I couldn’t be stiff 
after that. It made us feel intimate to be under 
suspicion. So he said : 

“ Look here, it’s no use my trying to explain on 
the ’phone. I shall only muddle things. Mayn’t I 
see you ? Will you come to lunch again ?” 

** Oh, I don’t know,” I said awkwardly. I felt 
awkward. I did want to see him again, but I didn’t 


TIME O’ DAY 


146 

want him to think the minute he gave his invitations 
rd grab at them, especially after my luckless letter 
and the awful way he’d made me feel. “ Fd — Fd 
rather not,” I said bluntly. 

** I see,” he answered, and there was a pause. 

I felt horrid, so I said hastily, ** Fd like to talk it 

over, if you can understand, but I Couldn’t 

you think of anything else ? ” 

“ Oh,” he said in a different tone. “ Fm a clumsy 
wretch, I know, but Fm sorry. Would it be another 
blunder to suggest Are you going to town to- 

morrow ? ” 

“ Yes,” I replied, “ to physical culture.” 

“ What I was going to say was, could I meet you 
after it and drive you home in my car? I could 
meet you anywhere you like any time after half-past 
four. Is that taking too much for granted ? But I 
really can’t explain on a ’phone, you know.” 

So we left it at that. He met me and drove me 
home and explained everything. He left in a tear- 
ing hurry for Melbourne when his mother was ill, 
and that upset the office for goodness knows how 
long. She was frightfully bad, nearly died, and he 
had to be backward and forward between the two 
States. He hadn’t time for one of his friends — only 
her and the business, and when she was out of 
danger at last, he was going to write, but he didn’t 
know quite what to say. He didn’t know me very 
well really, and he wasn’t sure Fd care to hear from 
him. Perhaps Fd quite dismissed him from my 
mind, with all the other men I know, and would 


BOB GALE RETURNS 


HI 


think it cheek if he apologized for neglecting me, 
as if it mattered to me what he did or didn’t do. 
Anyway, we were quite friends again by the time he 
dropped me at our gate, and he’s coming to tea on 
Sunday. 

I do hope it won’t be as hot as it is now. 1 
haven’t told the family he’s coming yet ; I suppose I 
shall get some cheek from Betty about my Storm- 
man when I do. 

Still, the world is a nice old place. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


CONSEQUENCES 

Sunday was so nice. It had turned beautifully 
cool again; the change came Saturday afternoon, 
and I was glad, for it is hard to look charming when 
you feel like a vanishing grease-spot. I’ve been 
shopping with Maida to-day, and we had a lovely 
talk. Really, it does seem too unreal at times to 
think of her being married. Do you ever find your- 
selves somehow not believing what’s actually hap- 
pened around you, and having a feeling at the back 
of your mind that you’ll wake up presently and find 
you’ve only dreamed it? Often and often when I’m 
nursing Peterjohn I look across at Maida’s thin little 
face and think we must be back in school listening 
blankly to Miss Harriet demanding to know “ If six 
pounds of sausage cost four gallons of tears, what 
was the medicine the doctor gave ? ” or something 
equally intelligible. 

She and Jack were up on Sunday. She wanted 
to see my red-headed man. Maida hates red hair, 
but she said his wasn’t aggressive at all. She liked 
him, but even if she hadn’t she would have, if you 
can understand. We would always like each other’s 
men, even if they were hateful — it’s part of our 


CONSEQUENCES 149 

loyalty. It was so funny too ; it turned out he and 
Jack knew each other slightly. 

We had good fun. Much the usual crowd were 
there: Petermac, of course, and Micky and Vane, 
and the Hyleses, and Betty^s pair. Edith Carson 
turned up too for a while. Fred was home, and 
he seemed to take rather a fancy to Bob. Fred 
isn^t often home now. The family is worrying a 
bit ; he^s got mixed up with some girl — a barmaid 
or shop-assistant or somebody — and mother is 
furious about it, but of course she daren^t say much. 
Fred is awfully obstinate. She is a pretty girl any- 
way — I saw her once with him in town — but of 
course not quite the sort one yearns for as a sister- 
in-law. I hope he won’t be so silly, but of course 
it’s his funeral ; he’s got to live with his wife, not us. 

Mother was gracious to Mr. Gale, and I could see 
he admired her. I was so glad. We’re rather 
proud of mother, you know ; we regard her as a 
family masterpiece that we exhibit to visitors. I 
only wish I could be half as lovely when I’m her 
age. He was charming to her too, and looked after 
Mrs. Haste, who came across for tea, like a combi- 
nation of a son and mechanical waiter. She fell 
straight in love with him, I could see it, and I liked 
him for it all the more. I love men to be thought- 
ful for old ladies. He talked to her as if he were 
really enjoying himself, and yet when he joined us 
again he was as nonsensical as anybody. He sug- 
gested playing Consequences ” while we were out 
on the lawn too, so Ada got some paper and pencils. 


150 


TIME DAY 


None of us had played for ages, and we all en- 
joyed it. I think “Consequences’* are real fun, 
don’t you, G.G.C., or don’t you condescend to such 
a pastime ? But they are so absurd and unexpected, 
and sometimes they fit almost as if the one person 
had made it up, instead of it being the accidental 
higgledy-piggledy of a dozen different ones. We 
laughed and laughed over them when they were 
read out. Mine was too ridiculous for words. It 
came that “ The sentimental Thyme met the perky 
Mr. Gale in the middle of a beatific smile. He told 
me I was the biggest prevaricator he had ever met, 
and I replied that his googly eyes had left scars on 
my heart, and the consequence was we fought to a 
finish and eloped, and the world said the love of 
Paolo and Francesca paled before ours.” 

Of course it was mad and absurd, but Bob said, 
in an aside, as we rose to go in to tea : 

“ Our consequences seem to have got a bit ahead 
of us, don’t they ? ” 

“ And gossip is seldom trustworthy,” I laughed. 

“ How delightful if it were,” he reflected. 

Of course Mr. Wymondham chipped in just as I 
was going to take Mr. Gale round the garden, and 
spoiled everything. I don’t know why he irritates 
me so dreadfully, I’m never nasty to any one but 
him. I think it is that he’s so dreadfully superior. 
He makes me feel a worm even when he’s being 
nice to me, and the worm turns. But I do think 
English people are unnecessarily proper on the out- 
side, for I’m sure he’s not proper inside, or anything 


CONSEQUENCES 151 

like it. But the other day I was telling Gordon 
about my bathing-suit-kimono costume for the hot 
weather — now do you see any harm in that ? — but 
Mr. Wymondham started in to raise his brows. I 
loathe people who raise their eyebrows, because I 
can’t do it myself — not effectively — so I added : 

I’m thinking of wearing it to the next fancy- 
dress party. Would you dance with me in it, 
Gordon ? ” 

He said, ‘‘ I’d dance with you in anything. 
Thyme.” 

“ Even in a saucepan and a ham frill? ” I queried 
recklessly as the eyebrows shot higher. 

“ More,” he responded, playing up to me ; “ I’d 
dance with you in a dream.” 

He didn’t pester me for quite a time after that. I 
wonder what on earth he likes me for ; I wish he 
didn’t. You want any one you like to like you, but 
when it’s some one you don’t care about his affec- 
tion is merely irritating and somehow sort of cheek. 
Affection from any one, I always think, gives you a 
feeling of being in their debt unless you can repay 
it by answering affection, and you hate being under 
an obligation to any one you dislike, especially an 
involuntary one. 

I wonder if you understand that, G.G.C.? Gordon 
thinks as I do, unless it is I think like him — I often 
suspect that’s about the size of it. He has queer 
ideas on lots of things. For instance, he doesn’t be- 
lieve in love — he says there’s no such thing. There’s 
passion, which nearly everybody feels some time or 


152 


TIME O’ DAY 


other, and there’s friendship, which is liking and re- 
spect ; and what is called “ love ” is a combination of 
the two : the former is transient and glorious and 
mad, the second is lasting and sober and respectful, 
and the best love has just the right proportion of 
each. But love, as third and distinct emotion, has 
no existence — at least so Gordon says. I wonder if 
he’s right. But I don’t suppose most people would 
believe him, and I’m quite sure Bob would think 
him mad. 

But Gordon says that is because most people don’t 
trouble to dissect their emotions. When they feel a 
strong physical attraction for a girl, nine men out of 
ten say, ** This is love,” and marry her, and find out 
after a few months they haven’t an idea in common 
or view one single question from the same stand- 
point. He says when you’ve got to spend most of 
your time in any one’s company the main essential 
to avoid friction is mental accord. He says if ever 
he finds a sensible girl who looks at things like he 
does, and isn’t afraid to have the clothes and flesh 
taken off the ugly things of life and their bones ex- 
posed, he may ask her to marry him ; but never, 
never one of these pretty girls who give him delight- 
ful collywobbles up his spine and whom he would 
have to talk to like a sugar doll. 

He doesn’t talk to me like a sugar doll anyway, 
does he ? But he complains I have no brains, and I 
don’t think somehow he’ll ever marry. He’s an un- 
usual man, and nothing but an unusual woman 
would suit him, and then he wouldn’t be satisfied, 


CONSEQUENCES 1 53 

for it would be just his luck for her to turn out a 
frump. 

I think Gordon is good for me. They say Vm 
silly, and he does too, but I should have been much 
sillier if it hadn't been for him ; as it is, I do think 
about things a little when I'm with him, anyway. I 
wonder what Mr. Gale would think of my having 
such opinions. I expect he would be shocked. He 
would only want me to be pretty and dainty and 
smiling and sugary for him to play with when he 
wasn't busy. I'm sure that's all he wants of girls, 
and that attitude makes Gordon simply furious. He 
says it is holding back the growth of the race. 

Gordon almost objects to ordinary courtesy — con- 
ventional courtesy anyway. He says the accepted 
chivalry is an insult to our sex ; he says the root 
idea of it is that a girl cannot look after herself and 
needs protection. The fact that she mustn't do for 
herself any little thing a man can do for her is tanta- 
mount to intimating her incompetence to her and 
showing her how lost she is without a man. “ Let 
me do that for you," says a man ; meaning, ** Let 
me do it ; I can do it so much better than you." 

He has perfectly horrid ideas at times, don't you 
think ? We have the most furious arguments about 
it. All the same, you mustn't think he doesn't be- 
have like other men ; he says it's against his prin- 
ciples, but his early training is too much for him. 

Besides, I can't bear a man who is not polite in little 
things, and he takes some notice of what I say. 

But he will never have as nice manners as Mr. 


^54 


TIME O’ DAY 


Gale. I am sure those two would never agree, so I 
must try not to let them clash, for I want to be 
friends with both. I do like Bob Gale, it’s no use 
pretending, and Fm so glad we’re going to be 
friends. He said we would be. You can’t imagine 
how nice he was on Sunday. Betty is impressed, 
to my amazement. She told me he was lots better 
than my usual run, and she couldn’t imagine how 
such a jolly boy had time for me. And mother 
asked me if he belonged to Robert Gale and Co., of 
Melbourne, and that if so she had known his mother 
when she was first married, and they were very nice 
people. So you see it’s all smooth sailing at home. 

I went out on the porch with him to say good- 
bye, just for a minute. He said I looked like a little 
moon-moth in my white frock under the banksia. 
He does talk nonsense in such an interesting way. 
I suppose it’s his particular gift — like Gordon’s for 
firing your soul with tales of dead heroes. 

He was awfully sensible all the time, too, you 
know, and he only held my hand just a little tightly 
as he said : 

“Good-night, Miss O’Dea. It was awfully kind 
of you to let me come.” 

“ We’re glad you could,” I answered, “and, if you 
care to, come again.” 

“ May I ? ” he said. “ I’d like to.” 

He lifted his hat and went crunching down the 
gravel. I watched him, and at the bend of the path 
he turned round and lifted it again. Then I went 
inside. 


CONSEQUENCES 155 

But I’m so glad we’re friends He has the cutest 
way of smiling with his red-brown eyes. 

Peterjohn darling, you’re going to grow up a 
merry-eyed man just like him, aren’t you, wee imp? 
I’m minding him this afternoon. The nurse has gone 
out, and Maida is busy making him some clothes 
— he’s in short frocks now and looks such a pet. 

I wonder when I’ll see him again. 


CHAPTER XIX 


A SURPRISE MEETING 

We went to the football to-day. It was a gor- 
geous game, and one of those clear sunny afternoons 
that make you feel like singing ‘‘ Rule, Britannia,’^ 
or something else warlike ; and the crowd did get 
excited, I almost shrieked myself, once or twice, 
when our team nearly got a goal, and just didn’t. 

I knew several of the boys playing for South 
Sydney too, and of course that makes it more excit- 
ing. We sat right down against the fence, in the 
sun, the pavilion was so cold, and so when the ball 
came off on our side, or there was a bit of a ruck, 
we could see the perspiration on the men’s faces and 
the way the muscles were standing up on their bare 
arms. I love it when eight or ten of them leap for 
the ball together, it’s like seeing the spirit of battle 
embody itself. I love seeing men at any kind of 
work, there’s a fascination about mere energy. And 
it was a fast game too, the ball seemed to fly about ; 
but it was a good clean go, there was very little 
tripping and nobody was badly hurt, though Dave 
Davenport was knocked out for a few minutes. He 
got one simply frightful crack close to us ; he and 
one of the other side, coming from opposite direc- 


A SURPRISE MEETING 


157 


tions as hard as they could lick, went full tilt into 
each other as they reached for the ball. Dave went 
down like a bullock, but after one of the men had 
knelt beside him and rubbed his stomach a bit, he 
crawled up and took his kick, but he could only 
push it about a yard, and he had to lie down again. 
But he was right again in five minutes. He is a 
lovely player, Dave, and he’s always good-tempered, 
even when any of the other side are laying for him. 
I’ve never heard of anybody seeing Dave cross. 

And we met Mr. Gale there. I hadn’t meant to 
go, but Marje was very keen on this particular 
match, and at the last minute Petermac found he 
couldn’t go till late, so she begged me to go with 
her, as she wanted to be there from the beginning. 

It was at quarter-time he came in, with three or 
four other fellows. I saw him quite accidentally as 
I was taking a look round to see whom I knew. I 
got such a shock when I saw him, for I’d never 
thought of his being at the football. I supposed 
he’d be golfing or rowing or playing hockey, and 
anyway, even though he came, it was ten chances to 
one our striking one another among all those thou- 
sands. But we did. 

He saw me the same moment I noticed him, and 
of course I gave him a tiny smile and looked away, 
but from the angle at which I was sitting I could 
watch him out of the corner of my eyelash, and I 
saw him turn and say something to the fellows he 
was with, who were making for the smoking- 
pavilion. They seemed to expostulate with him for 


TIME DAY 


158 

a minute, and then they laughed and watched him 
thread his way down to us with interest, and the 
next thing I knew he was standing beside me. 

“ How d’ye do?” he said with the loveliest smile. 
“ Oh, how d’ye do ? ” he repeated to Marjoram, 
whom he hadn’t noticed up till then. “ I was won- 
dering if by any chance you’d be here,” he added to 
me. “ I’ve only just come.” 

“Yes, I saw you,” I replied. He still stood there, 
and I didn’t know quite what to do. I didn’t know 
whether he wanted to stop with us or go back to his 
friends, and I didn’t like to ask him to sit down, for 
he mightn’t like to refuse, and perhaps he had only 
come down to speak for a minute. But he went on 
talking, and Marje in her usual blunt fashion cut the 
knot. Marje never sees two sides of a situation like 
I do, and in some ways it’s handy. She now came 
to the rescue with : 

“ Hadn’t you better move up, Thyme, and let Mr. 
Gale sit down ? ” 

“ But are you sure there’s room ? ” he said. “ I 
won’t be crushing you, will I ? ” 

“Of course not,” I said, moving. “ There’s plenty 
of room, and we’re keeping a seat for Petermac ; 
he’ll be along any minute now. But are you sure 
you don’t want to go back to your friends ? ” 

“Not if you’ll let me stay here,” he replied 
promptly. 

And we both laughed. 

It was such a nice afternoon. 

“ I’m awfully glad I found you,” he said after a 


A SURPRISE MEETING 


159 

bit. “ I thought you might be here. You told me 
you were fond of football.” 

” I didn^t think you would be,” I answered quite 
truthfully. Didn^t you tell me you rowed Satur- 
days ? ” 

” So I do,” said he ; those were rowing fellows I 
came with. We had about an hour before we came, 
but they all had a bit of money on the match and 
were keen on seeing it, and — I wanted to come too, 
so we let the rowing slide.” 

“ Did you ? ” I said, with just half a glance, and 
then I watched the football again. But he watched 
me more than the football ; I could feel him. 

“ I love rowing,” I said after a bit. ‘‘ Where do 
you row ? I should like to see you.” 

“ Oh, we’re nothing very crack,” he laughed. “ I 
haven’t done much since I left college till I came to 
Sydney. But we’re rowing a match next Saturday ; 
if you’d like to see it I’ll send you tickets for the 
launch that follows us.” 

‘‘ Thank you very much,” I replied. ” I’d love to.” 
And just then I noticed him take off his hat to some- 
body. 

** Dolly Lawrance,” he said, as my eyes involun- 
tarily went in the direction he was looking. ** Haven’t 
you seen her ? ” 

Not before,” I said, as I too smiled at her. She 
was sitting a couple of rows back with the Hyleses — 
Lottie always comes to see every match Dave plays 
in. Her return greeting wasn’t exactly effusive ; I 
suppose she didn’t like Mr. Gale’s being with me. 


i6o 


TIME DAY 


“ YouVe a great friend of Dolly^s, aren't you ? " I 
asked conversationally as I played with the clasp of 
my bag. 

“ We get on all right,” he replied. ** I like the 
whole family, but Dolly likes my brother Stan better 
than me.” 

‘‘ Is he in the business too ? ” I asked, more to show 
polite interest than because I was really curious. 

He nodded. ‘‘Yes, we're both with the pater. They 
were going to send him over here first instead of me.” 

“ Why didn’t they ? ” I said as he stopped abruptly. 

“ Oh, well — they thought — the biggest reason was 
we want to keep Stan away from certain influences 
over here. But I'm afraid he may have to take my 
place soon all the same.” 

“ Why, are you going away ? ” I asked, feeling 
horribly dismayed. 

“ I may have to any day,” he answered. ‘‘ The 
pater’s health is uncertain just now, and the strain 
and worry are getting too much for him. He’ll have 
to retire soon. He really should have done it before 
now, and of course that will mean readjustments. I 
expect I shall be needed at the head office.” 

“I’m sorry,” I said after a short pause. 

“ So shall I be — now,” he said with just the 
faintest shade of meaning. “ However,” he laughed 
again, “ I’m not gone yet. The pater is still pegging 
along, obstinately refusing to be laid on the shelf, 
and I’m glad to see it.” 

“ Then you are the elder brother ? ” I said. 

He nodded. 


A SURPRISE MEETING i6i 

** You told me you had some sisters, didn’t you ?” 

“Two,” his eyes twinkled. “ Why?” 

“ What are they like ? ” 

“ Like ? ” the twinkle deepened. “ Do you mean 
to look at ? They are both fair, one’s hair is redder 
than mine.” 

“ No,” I said ; “ I mean just — well, just what are 
they like ? Are you fond of them ? ” 

The twinkle deepened to a real smile. “ I sup- 
pose I am. I haven’t thought about it ; one doesn’t 
with sisters, you know.” 

“ Well, tell me what they are like,” I persisted. 

“Not like you, anyway. They are nice girls of 
course, but I don’t think you would care much about 
them.” 

“ Wouldn’t I ? ” I said. “ Why ? ” 

“ Well, I can’t explain exactly, but they’re awfully 
good, you know. I haven’t really seen much of them. 
I was a boarder at college for years, while the pater 
and mother had the girls brought up in England, so 
Stan and I hardly knew them till they came back 
grown up. The trouble with them is they’ve never 
had a fling. Mother holds them in too tight — I tell 
her so. It’s funny neither she nor the pater has 
ever attempted to interfere with us boys since we 
were quite youngsters, but the girls can’t call their 
souls their own. They are frightfully particular 
where they let them go, and as for letting them go 
to the theatre alone with any fellows but us 1 — you 
can’t imagine how strictly they’ve been kept in. 
Sometimes Stan and I try to get them out a bit, but 


i 62 


TIME DAY 


it’s only an occasional burst, and being brought up 
in England, they haven’t any friends they’ve grown 
up with to make their own circle like you, so there 
they are.” 

” How too bad,” I said sympathetically. 

“ It is rather, isn’t it ? ” he agreed. I’ll tell you 
the sort of thing they have to put up with. They 
can have whom they like to the house provided the 
pater and mother think them suitable, but they are 
not allowed outside amusements like most girls, that’s 
what I mean. Only a little before I came to Sydney 
a girl friend of theirs was going to England, and 
they arranged to give her a small farewell at Menzies 
in the afternoon — they’d engaged the room and 
everything, and then the folks at home put their foot 
down and made them cancel it all, said they had a 
big enough house to hold all the people they wanted 
to entertain and enough servants to carry out any 
orders, and they didn’t see why they wanted to have 
it at a hotel, and it wasn’t proper, etc. The girls 
were wild about it, I remember ; it was the first time 
I’d seen them really rebellious. They’re very good 
girls.” 

“I wonder how you came to have sisters like 
that,” I said mischievously. 

I wonder myself at times,” he said, “ but Stan 
and I arrived first, so perhaps they got misdirected 
and came to the wrong house.” 

I couldn’t help smiling to myself as I sat and 
thought it over. How his mamma and sisters would 
disapprove of me if they could see me with him this 


A SURPRISE MEETING 163 

minute 1 But mothers and sisters generally do dis- 
approve of their men^s taste in girls. Look at Fred 
— though of course that is different. They couldn’t 
find any social objections to me, but I expect if they 
knew they’d tell him I was a flirt and fast and things 
like that. 

He broke into my musings suddenly. 

“ Do you know when I first heard of you ? ” he 
said. 

“ The day you landed in Sydney,” I suggested 
mirthfully. He had to laugh too. 

“ No ; over in Melbourne, long before I came.” 

** Gracious I ” I said aghast. “ I didn’t know my 
reputation extended beyond the limits of one State. 
Then I come under Federal jurisdiction, don’t I ? 
Don’t be alarmed,” I added. I don’t really know 
anything about it, but we pick up phrases like that 
from dad and use them in argument at home whether 
they’re to the point or not ; they sound so imposing. 
But how did you hear about me ? Who from ? ” 

** It’s been puzzling me ever since I met you,” he 
answered, “ but I couldn’t place you, and only last 
night as I was going to sleep it suddenly dawned 
on me. You used to know Molly Davenport, didn’t 
you ? ” 

** Heavens I Yes,” I cried. ” Molly and I were 
great friends till she went to Melbourne ; she went 
to live with her married sister after the father died 
and the home was broken up — her mother had been 
dead for years. Look I that’s her brother playing — 
number three he is, the big fellow — look — he’s jump- 


TIME O’ DAY 


164 

ing for the ball now, that’s Dave. Just fancy your 
knowing Molly. What’s she like now ? She had 
her hair down when she went away.” 

” It was up when I met her. I struck her down 
at the ’Varsity first. I took a course in science 
there, as I think I told you, before I went in with 
the pater, and Miss Davenport tried it too for a 
year.” His face crinkled in a smile. “ She used to 
enliven proceedings considerably at times.” 

** Molly would,” I said with conviction. “ What 
did she do?” 

“Oh, nothing worth recounting. One can’t do 
anything exciting there like one can at school, for 
there’s so little you are forbidden. The only restric- 
tions are your own sense of decency and how much 
you value the dislike of your lecturers — those two 
keep the average student within the bounds better 
than any number of rules. But we had fun all the 
same, and of course girls working with you enliven 
things a good deal — that is if they’re the right sort. 
Miss Davenport was doing first-year science when I 
did, and at the time there were only two other girls 
besides her. They sat in the front row together at 
lectures, and our crowd was just behind ; we used to 
tease the life out of them sotto voccy but we always 
gave them the answers to questions that floored 
them, so it cut both ways. And occasionally they 
gave us a tea-party between lectures in their room, 
and we’d have songs and speeches and dancing — in 
the afternoon, mind you. George I we were a giddy 
crowd.” 


A SURPRISE MEETING 


165 

“What fun you must have had,” I said enviously. 
“ I wish I had brains enough to go to a University.” 

“ Oh, you don’t need brains to go there,” he 
laughed, “only to get away, and not always then. 
Upon my soul, when you’re down there and see the 
number of blithering idiots that, by sheer hard work 
or just luck at exams., are turned out with degrees 
— well, you haven’t got the respect for degrees you 
started out with.” 

“ Tell me more about Molly,” I urged, as he was 
silent. 

“She was the liveliest of the bunch by a long 
way, and she did one thing we remembered her by. 
You know in practical chem. we use lots of mixtures, 
and they keep them, or some of them, in big glass 
jars with little glass taps — I dare say you’ve seen 
the sort in chemist shops. Well, old Harris, that 
was our prof., was a careful sort of chap, and he got 
the notion we were being too wasteful with the dis- 
tilled water — we were too, used to turn on the tap 
full tilt and splash it all over the place — so he half- 
stuffed up all the taps with wadding so that they 
would only trickle. We couldn’t make it out the 
first day, and it was Miss Davenport who tumbled, 
and she had a brilliant idea. We pulled the wad- 
ding out of the tap farthest away from old Harris, 
and when he wasn’t looking every one who could 
filled his tube at the free tap, while the others, under 
Harris’s eye, had to wait patiently on the trickle. 
He could never make out why there was always 
such a rush for the end tap.” 


i66 


TIME O’ DAY 


We were talking like this all the time, only non- 
sense, but it seemed to make us know each other 
ever so much better : little things you’ve done and 
cared about make such a cozy intimate sort of con- 
versation, don’t they? 

And after the match was over he suggested we 
shouldn’t go home, but stay in town to dinner and 
go to the theatre, the four of us. Marje and Peter- 
mac liked the idea, and I love impromptu things, so 
we did. Mr. Gale got a taxi and tore off to the box- 
office to get seats, while we three strolled slowly on 
to Paris House. I don’t think I ever enjoyed a 
dinner more in my life, though I don’t know what 
we ate. We had a simply lovely time, and the play 
afterward was perfect. 

And when we said good-bye he thanked me for 
letting him have such a nice day. It was he who 
gave me one, but wasn’t it sweet of him to put it 
that way ? 

He has the nicest manners of any man I ever met. 


CHAPTER XX 


MICKY AND VANE GO HOME 

Dolly Lawrance was round to dinner to-night. 
They are talking of taking a house at Thirroul for 
Easter week, and if they do, they want me to stop 
with them. I wonder what the gag is ? Surely Dr. 
Philip couldn’t want me to be asked. And yet if it 
isn’t that, why me? Marjoram is more Dolly’s friend 
than I. What a lark, great-grandchildren, if it is 
Dr. Philip ! I wish I could find out. I must have a 
try. I believe he does like me a bit ; he rang up and 
offered me seats for Kismet last week, but I couldn’t 
go as I was off skating with Gordon. 

I do wish the blowflies would stop buzzing, there 
must be going to be a change in the weather ; there 
are a good dozen in my room, I should think. I 
don’t know where they came from, and they are 
making a perfectly distracting noise and flying in 
the gas and burning their wings, poor sillies, then 
they drop on the floor and lie buzzing worse than 
ever. I wonder if they are screaming. Perhaps it 
would be kinder if I trod on them ; but I can’t bear 
to, they crack so loudly. 

But it is worse when they catch in the globe of 
the gas, and get burnt, or sorched, or fried, or which- 
ever it is, against the mantel. It makes me sick to 


i68 


TIME O’ DAY 


hear their sharp drone of pain ; but what can I do ? 
If I turn out the gas it will only prolong their death 
agony ; they can’t get out. 

I hate death and pain — seeing it, I mean — even in 
flies. Why can’t every one be happy always ? 

Poor old Vane hasn’t been happy the last few 
days ; their holiday is over, and he and Micky went 
back to Melbourne to-day. He has been quite mel- 
ancholy for a week, but Ada seems undisturbed. I 
wonder how she can be so cold. I couldn’t to any 
man, even if I didn’t like him, if he liked me as 
much as Vane does her. I should feel so sorry I 
couldn’t care in return that I should be almost nicer 
to him than if I did. 

But she isn’t. She takes everything he does for 
her as quite a matter of course, and poor Vane thinks 
she is the last word in girls. I think she’s a brute. 
Isn’t it extraordinary? If a man once decides he 
cares for a woman, she can be as cold and beastly 
as she likes, and he thinks it’s lovely because it’s 
her, and if he doesn’t care about her, she can be 
a darling, and he’ll never notice. But women are 
nearly as unreasonable too. 

But how can she be so horrid to poor Vane ? She 
wouldn’t even give him one little good-bye kiss, for 
he told me this morning ; he spent most of it sitting 
on the lawn in the sun with me — Fay and Micky 
were down the garden having a last flirt. I wouldn’t 
mind betting Fay isn’t so stingy, still she goes a bit 
to the other extreme, but she’ll tone down in time 
and, anyway, who am I to go criticizing her ? 


MICKY AND VANE GO HOME 169 

Still, it’s funny wondering how other girls behave 
with men when they are alone. I guess much the 
same way you behave yourself. 

Vane is hugely delighted that she has promised to 
write to him ; I wonder how often she’ll do it. I 
wish I could make up my mind how much of her 
attitude is real indifference, and how much bluff. 
She came down to see him off, and that was a con- 
cession ; she had a half-holiday from the kinder- 
garten, so Mrs. Haste and I chaperoned the four of 
them down to the boat. We got a lot of fun out of 
it. We let them stroll about the deck alone, and 
just before we came off I suddenly deluged the four 
of them with confetti. Everybody on board was of 
course wildly excited and mystified, thinking they 
were to carry a honeymoon couple, and they couldn’t 
understand when the two girls came off with us. 

It was a huge joke, and Fay enjoyed it, but Ada 
was as mad as could be, and would hardly say good- 
bye to poor Vane ; still she was one of the last to 
keep up waving ‘‘good-bye” till the ship was out 
of sight, she’s a queer puzzle. But it’s a frightfully 
tiring game seeing people off, standing about the boat 
and on the wharf and getting pushed and elbowed 
about, isn’t it? But I do like to see the big ship 
slipping away from the side, with all the broken 
ribbons tangling their pink and green and yellow 
against her. 

And who do you think we met on board? Of 
course we saw crowds of people we knew. One 
always does, it’s a perfect succession of “ How d’ye 


TIME DAY 


170 

do ? ’^ and “ Hello, are you going too ? ” But in 
among the crowd we suddenly came upon — Mr. Gale. 
We both got such a shock, for the crowd nearly 
pushed us into each other^s arms. When we disen- 
tangled and got out of the rush, and found out we 
were neither of us going, he told me he was down 
seeing his brother off back to Melbourne ; he had 
been up to Brisbane and was on his way back. We 
had both lost our folks by this time, so we sat down 
where we were and talked on. It was the most 
sensible thing to do, wasn’t it ? If two sets of people 
start chasing each other round the decks they’ll never 
meet. 

Still I must admit it was some time before the 
others found us, and, as Fred would have put it, 
they smiled audibly when they saw who I was with. 
Then Bob’s brother appeared discreetly on the out- 
skirts of the crowd and Bob called him and intro- 
duced him all round ; he is something like Bob, only 
bigger, a little, and his eyes are not quite so coaxing. 
I surprised him once looking at me pretty hard ; I 
wonder if Bob has told him anything about me, but 
of course he wouldn’t. 

Vane seized the opportunity to draw me aside and 
say, “Thyme, I’m surprised at you. Where does 
poor Gordon come in ? He needs me here, to look 
after you for him.” 

“ Then you’d better stay,” I laughed. 

Vane’s face grew sombre in a twinkling. “ I wish 
I could,” he sighed. “ I just hate going. Thyme, 
you’ll look after her for me, won’t you ? ” 


MICKY AND VANE GO HOME 171 

“ Like a mother,” I said, patting the big goose’s 
arm. If he’d been shorter I’d have hugged him, but 
a girl my size can’t hug a six-footer with comfort, 
even if he is four years younger. 

But I wonder why they persist about Gordon like 
that? I’m sure he doesn’t care about me that way. 

Oh 1 well, they’re gone now. Fay quite cried as 
Micky’s smile faded out of view. She’ll have for- 
gotten all about him to-morrow when she sees Hud- 
son again, but she’s like me in some ways, she lives 
intensely in the present. Ada just said calmly that 
she was glad they had gone, as she might get a 
chance to get some work done again. 

Isn’t she unnatural ? 

Bob has asked me to go skating with him on 
Wednesday night. We’ll go to the Glaciarum, I 
think, for a change. I’m getting a wee bit tired of 
the rollers. 


CHAPTER XXI 


MR. WYMONDHAM 

Gracious, I am tired this afternoon. I was shop- 
ping all the morning. I wanted a new coat and skirt, 
and I had to try every shop in town before I got one 
to my liking. I wanted a heather tweed, and just 
because I was sure I didn’t want any other sort, there 
didn’t seem to be a heather tweed in all Sydney. 
There were tons of stripes, and art shades, and 
greys, and blacks, and every other color Solomon 
could have fancied. I nearly wore my legs off go- 
ing from one shop to another, but at last I got such 
a beauty. It was the only one they had. A sort of 
browny-green with tiny red and blue streaks in it. 

Bob said once he loves girls in rough tweeds for 
the winter, they look so simple and warm. Mine 
will almost exactly match a suit of his. Won’t it be 
a joke if we go out in them together? People will 
think we are married and have had them made off 
the same roll. 

We had huge fun at the skating on Wednesday. 
He skates beautifully, and I am not so bad myself. I 
think I looked rather nice too, G.G.C., at least he 
said I did. Is it hard to imagine the old frump with 
the three chins looking nice? I wore a white cloth 
dress, and white doeskin boots, and white furs, so at 


MR. WYMONDHAM 


•73 

any rate I looked suitable and icy. Every now and 
then I felt him stealing glances at me, the sort of 
glances that make a girl positive the man she^s with 
is glad he^s there. 

We met Dr. Philip there, but I didn’t see Dolly. 
He came up to us while we were having coffee and 
joined us, and really I didn’t mind, he was ever so 
much jollier than I’ve seen him before. Bob seems 
to thaw him right out, but it is so strange they 
should be so fond of each other ; they are so unlike. 
We had great fun together. The three of us went 
round after that. He skates better than either of us, 
and I felt quite proud of myself, with the two most 
distinguished-looking men on the rink making a fuss 
over me. I saw Lottie Hyles looking at me envi- 
ously more than once. 

But I made a fearful break as we were coming 
home. The three of us had supper together, and 
while we were sitting there Mr. Wymondham passed 
by with an amazingly pretty girl, dressed amazingly 
too. But of course that’s nothing for Sydney. He 
didn’t see us, or wouldn’t. I’m not sure which, and 
the way she was dressed might have taught me 
more sense ; but with what Marje calls my “ usual 
brilliance,” I said right out : 

‘‘ What a lovely girl that is with Mr. Wymond- 
ham ; do you know who she is ? ” When I was half- 
way through I wondered if I was putting my foot 
into it, and when I saw the two men exchange a 
scarcely perceptible glance I knew it, even before 
Bob replied coolly : 


^74 


TIME DAY 


“No, I don^t know her at all, Miss O’Dea/' 

I wonder if he doesn’t, really ? But for about five 
minutes I felt the most utter and complete ass ever 
born ; yet as long as they didn’t know I suppose it 
was all right. But I suddenly remembered who she 
was. Dolly Lawrance had told me about her one 
day when we passed her in the street ; her name is 
Lulu Anderson, at least that’s what she calls herself. 
Don’t men and women play the hypocrite with each 
other? Why couldn’t he have said straight out 
what she was? Gordon would have, but I suppose I 
should have felt insulted if he had. Training counts 
most after all. 

We dropped the subject of Mr. Wymondham with 
enthusiasm, but going home Bob said to me : 

“ Is Wymondham a friend of yours ? ” 

“ Oh, I know him,” I replied carelessly. “ Why ? ” 
Bob frowned. I love the way he frowns. “ Oh, 

nothing, but ” Then he laughed apologetically. 

“ It’s a bit over the fence to slander a man when he’s 
absent, but you’ve got brothers, haven’t you? Ask 
them about him.” 

“ I could ask Gordon,” I said thoughtfully. “ But 
you know him too, don’t you? I’ve seen you 
together. I thought he was a friend of yours.” 

“ Never in this life,” Bob declared with quite sur- 
prising emphasis. “ Men have got to mix with a lot 
of other men at times whom they can’t stand, but I 
wouldn’t let a sister of mine talk to him.” 

“ Good gracious,” I said, “ but he goes everywhere. 
I meet him all over the place, at every one’s parties.” 


MR. WYMONDHAM 


175 

** And a pretty good advertisement of our social 
decency it is,” Bob said indignantly. “ No wonder 
some folks say, for its size, Sydney is about the 
wickedest city of the globe. I know people receive 
him, but ril tell you this, to me, and to a good many 
other fellows I know, any girl that is seen with Gus 

Wymondham Well, look here. Miss O’Dea, 

there^s no use mincing words since we’re on the sub- 
ject, his reputation’s blasting to a decent girl’s 
name.” There was a slight pause. ‘‘I hope I 
haven’t offended you,” he added. 

I wasn’t offended a bit, and I don’t know why I 
said what I did ; I suppose it was just general cussed- 
ness and a certain awkwardness. 

It is an awkward subject to discuss with men, isn’t 
it, however many pairs of gloves you put on ? 

And, too, it was a bit cheek on his part, warning 
me like that on such a short acquaintance, as if I 
couldn’t take care of myself, but I was a bit surprised 
all the same when I found myself replying with 
dignity ; 

“ We see a good deal of Mr. Wymondham.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Bob replied quite as 
coldly, and as we were at our front door by now he 
just wished me good-night and went. 

For a minute I stood in the doorway hesitating. 
I could see he was terribly offended, but I didn’t see 
why I should play the humble Griselda because he 
chose to presume, but when I saw him disappear 
round the curve of the path without once looking 
back, I dropped my heavy cloak and tore after him. 


TIME DAY 


176 

It was not for nothing I was captain of our school 
hockey team, and, in spite of tight skirts, I caught 
him just as he was shutting the gate. 

He turned when he heard me pelting down the 
path, looking fearfully surprised and hurt still, and 
I grabbed his arm across the gate. 

“ Please don’t be cross,” I begged. ‘‘ I was fear- 
fully rude, but I didn’t mean to be. I really don’t 
like him a bit, and I never have been anywhere with 
him at all, honest I haven’t.” 

“I’m sure of it,” he said, still in that queer grave 

way. “ If I thought you had ” 

“ But surely,” I blurted, amazed, “ even if I had 

you couldn’t think — about me Oh I ” 

“ If you knew as much about Gus Wymondham 
as I do,” he answered in the same way, “ you would 
know I couldn’t help thinking it.” 

Wasn’t that a frightful thing to have said to one ? 
And yet at the time it didn’t seem cheek, we were 
both too deadly earnest. But how awful if he’s as 
rotten as all that ! I felt he was, that’s why I’ve re- 
fused anything he’s asked me to. But, if he’s so bad, 
why does mother let him come about ? I suppose 
because every one else does, and he seems to have 
money and certainly has trump connections. People 
forgive a lot to that, don’t they ? 

Anyway, when we shook hands again, we felt so 
cozy and intimate — as if we’d been friends for years 
and years in that quarter of an hour. 

He’s coming up to-night. What shall I wear ? I 
think my blue ninon^ and my turquoise earrings. 


MR. WYMONDHAM 


177 


Gracious I Now I come to think of it, I believe I tore 
the hem last time I wore it. I must stop and mend 
it. I’m rather a neat hand at mending. I do most 
of the family’s when they have accidents with their 
clothes ; I like it when it requires ingenuity so that 
it won't show much. I specially like things with 
stripes or checks, where you have to use different 
colored threads. 

But I loathe darning stockings. Biddy says I’ll 
die poor, because I always darn mine on my feet. 
Biddy's very superstitious about stockings : once she 
went to a party with one of hers inside out sooner 
than chance the bad luck of changing it. I'm sure I 
wouldn’t. I shall never forget my feelings one night 
when I did something the same. I was wearing gold 
shoes and stockings to a dance, and, as it was a cold 
night, I slipped a pair of black cashmere ones over 
them to keep my legs warm going, and absent- 
mindedly forgot to take one off, and in the middle of 
a whirling lancers I looked down and suddenly dis- 
covered I had one black and one yellow leg, like a 
mediaeval jester. I never felt such a complete idiot 
before ; the whole set was chuckling. 

I often wonder whether it's more awful to know 
you look a fool than not to know it. 

I wonder if Bob and I will get much chance of a 
yarn to-night. Marje said the Hyleses rang up and 
said they are coming round, and they always want 
music, bother it ! 

I mustn't forget to ask Gordon about Mr. 
Wymondham. 


CHAPTER XXII 


TWO LETTERS 

Really it*s a bit absurd to make two entries in one 
day, but the post has just come, and I had to tell you 
I got a letter from each of the boys. Great-grand- 
children, I wonder if you are as absurd now some of 
you are nineteen ? I took them out into the garden 
and screamed over them, but I nearly cried too, poor 
dears. I do feel sorry for them. The younger you 
are the more things hurt ; you haven’t got enough 
perspective to see just where they fit in. When you 
are as old as I am you get from experience a kind of 
feeling that there’s sure to be something pretty near 
as good round the corner. 

But at nineteen you’re positive certain there 
couldn’t be. 

I’ll copy them down for you, G.G.C. Do you 
write such silly letters ? The first is Vane’s : 

‘‘ Dear Thyme : ** At sea. 

“Just a few lines on our sad leave-taking. 
I’m feeling rotten, and I hope you’re being decent to 
old Gordon. He is a bit of all right.” (As if I didn’t 
know that !) “We watched you all — I watched 
Ada — till you were out of sight and hidden from 
view by the smoke. Please excuse if I finish in 
pencil, the boat is rolling so. Then we watched dear 
old Sydney gradually disappear till we were outside 
the Heads. Then it was time for a feed. When the 


TWO LETTERS 


179 

feed came we had a good go in, you bet, and then 
they had a dance, but we were too sad to join in, so 
we went to bed at half-past nine. Our cabin is 
covered with confetti. Micky was nearly sick last 
night. Well, I must close now, as I want to write to 
Ada before we land. Don’t forget to do what you 
promised, and let me know how she is and if any 
other fellow gets hanging round.” 

And then he adds two postscripts : 

“ Do let me know how she is. You have our 
address. You will write, won’t you ? ” 

“ Don’t forget to put in a good word for me some- 
times, but I think things are pretty near all right for 
the present. You know the sort of thing to say, 
though.” 

Well, for cool impudence commend me to a youth 
of nineteen ! Because in their eyes I am not far re- 
moved from a maiden aunt, do they think I have 
nothing else in life to do but help on their love af- 
fairs ? Write to them indeed, like a reporter, with 
Max and others kicking up a shine because I haven’t 
time for letters even to them. 

All the same I suppose I will. I never could say 
“ No ” to a man, and they are both such dears. If 
they were a bit older I’d be in love with them myself. 

Micky’s letter is a bit more cheerful : 

“ Dear Thyme : '' Tuesday. At sea. 

** I want to thank you for the ripping holiday 
you and your folks helped to give us. You were a 
sport and a dear, and there’s only one girl I love 
more than you, and I guess you know who that is.” 


i8o 


TIME O’ DAY 


\ 

(Oh, Micky, Micky, what would your little Mel- 
bourne girl say if she heard you ?) “ Do you think 

she’s sorry I’m gone ? Vane is frightfully glumpy ; 
he just sits there thinking about Ada. Put in a good 
word for me with Fay now and again, won’t you ? 
You tell her in confidence I told you she is the nicest 
girl Pve ever met. Underline it too. I am going to 
write to her, and she to me, but I suppose she will 
soon forget me. She’s a flirt, isn’t she ? ” (What 
about yourself, Micky ?) 

“ Vane’s face is making me feel sad — I mean 
sadder — and all the parties we’ve had lately are not 
a good thing for me with this choppy sea. But I’m 
not sick yet. There is no one nice on board. I 
saw a pretty girl go past just now, but Vane is so 
miserable, I don’t suppose I shall get a chance to 
speak to her. 

“I wish Fay were here. We would have fun, 
wouldn’t we ? I had better ring off ; I sound like a 
love-sick tomcat. I will stop and write to her now. 
Good-bye, Thyme, again. 

“ Your most sincere friend, 

Micky McEwen. 

“ P. S. — Vane has given you our address, hasn’t 
he ? We go up to the station in a few days.” 

Of all calm cheek 1 But I had to laugh. So your 
r61e in life apparently. Thyme, my dear, is that of a 
good-natured policeman. Do you really look as old 
as that ? Let’s get to the mirror. No, you don’t, 
Thyme, honesty compels me to deny it. 

I must tell Bob about the kids. He will laugh. 

But I suppose I shall write, as if I hadn’t got 
enough letters already. 

Drat that Max ! 


CHAPTER XXIII 


IN THE GARDEN 

Oh, we did have such a nice time last night, G.G.C., 
Bob and I. You needn’t sniff, my dears ; he has asked 
me to call him Bob. It sounded funny at first, but 
I’m getting used to it. I’m so glad he did. I was 
afraid we weren’t going to get a chance to speak to 
each other, but my luck held. Lottie Hyles came 
round alone — at the last moment her brother had to 
go to a rowing meeting — so Marjeand Petermacand 
Fred and she played bridge. I was afraid Fred 
wouldn’t at first, for he’s supposed to stew most 
nights he isn’t at dances, but I slipped up to his den, 
when I saw how the land lay, and begged him to 
come and say he wanted to play, otherwise Bob 
would have had to make a fourth and I would have 
had to stand out. 

Fred and I do each other good turns on occasions, 
so he came ; besides, he rather likes Lottie, and that 
of course left me and Bob free to do what we liked, 
and we liked to go into the garden, but we couldn’t, 
for Betty came and talked to us. She has been seized 
with a violent admiration for Bob — it’s the funniest 
thing I’ve ever seen ; she’ll let him say anything to 
her. She told me to-day she wished I’d marry him, 


i 82 


TIME O’ DAY 


because she would like him for a brother-in-law, but 
she kindly added she didn’t suppose Fd ever get the 
chance, not if he had any sense. 

She monopolizes the conversation too when she 
does talk. I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. It 
was amusing for a bit, but I began to think soon she 
intended to chaperone us the whole evening. You 
see, neither of us felt we knew the other well enough 
to suggest openly that two is a perfect number, and 
Betty is impervious to hints. 

However, Ada came to the rescue like an angel. 
I never would have believed she’d be so observant, 
for she never wants to be alone herself. Still, she 
knows I’m different, and, although she disapproves, 
since the episode of Vane she seems to have a 
certain degree of sympathy. So in response to my 
agonized eyebrow she called Betty out of the room 
on some pretext or another, and we seized the op- 
portunity with both hands and feet and sloped into 
the garden. 

Of course I made him suggest it. 

But it was, as he said, too lovely a night to spend 
indoors. We went and sat under the old pepper- 
tree by the east corner of the veranda. It’s a most 
private spot, sheltered on almost three sides by a 
high pittosporum hedge which prevents one (or 
rather two) being awkwardly surprised, and at night 
the pittosporum smells glorious. The family have 
nicknamed it “Thyme’s Corner” — ^just like their 
cheek! But if it could talk, dear old place — I’m 
glad it can’t. Think if it had started in to tell Bob 


IN THE GARDEN 


>83 

that was where Max and I said our last good-bye. 
I had another letter from him to-day, rather a mad 
one too, worse luck. Marje says I ought to stop 
his thinking things like that, but how can I? I 
could only by telling him there^s some one else, and 
there isn’t really. Nobody special. 

Bob said it was the loveliest place he’d ever seen. 
We sat there till supper. I wonder if he liked it as 
much as I did. I think so. We talked about all 
sorts of things, and he told me more of his mother 
and when he was at the ’Varsity and his men friends 
in Melbourne. He said at first he hated coming 
over here away from them all. And I told him 
about the family and when we were kids up at 
Willibindi, and how they always say at home I’m 
silly ; and he said in the loveliest voice : 

“ Not a silly little girl ; a dear little girl.” 

And I was actually tongue-tied. Fancy Thyme 
O’Dea without a word to say I But I think it is his 
eyes make me feel shy. And there would be long 
silences, and they seemed cozier than talking, and 
just now and again, like the orchestra filling in 
snatches of the heroine’s soliloquy. Bob accom- 
panied the underground chitter of the earth with 
remarks. His voice is like a ’cello, and it has the 
strangest, most musical vibrations in it at times ; it 
seems to clutch your heart and twist round it. And 
the moon hit straight through the pepper leaves and 
made fairy patterns on my frock and, round the 
shade the tree threw, a white half-circle on the 
grass. It was exactly as if Diana — jealous old maid 


i 84 time day 

she is — was trying to ferret us out with a forty horse- 
power arc light. 

Of course we had to go in with the rest at supper, 
and Fred tipped me a brotherly wink. I suppose 
ril have to do something for him now — perhaps 
back him up in a few more lies when he wants to go 
out with his shop-girl. 

I walked down to the gate with Bob to say good- 
bye — Marje was on ahead with Petermac — and he 
gave my fingers such a hard squeeze, it made my 
rings cut into my flesh, and I had to bite my lips to 
keep from exclaiming. But I like him to hurt me. 
I can understand in a way how women can love men 
who knock them about. And he said simply, “ Good- 
night,” and then after a pause, in a way that made 
the word sing, ‘‘ Thyme.” 

And he went. He always says the right thing and 
goes at the right moment, and I listened until the last 
click of his footsteps had grown thin in the sharp air. 

Gordon came round to-night, and the family, 
singly and collectively, started in to tell him all 
about it. They think Fm in love with Bob, and 
haven’t the least objection to putting their thoughts 
into words. I don’t mind that — I’m used to the 
family — but what I would like to know is how 
much he cares about me. I wonder if he does. Do 
you know, great-grandchildren, I believe I would 
rather like to marry him. I never met a man I felt 
that way about before, although I’ve been in love 
with heaps. I wonder if he ever will be your great- 
grandpapa? But I don’t suppose it will interest 


IN THE GARDEN 


185 

you much who he was, one will be as good as 
another to you this far back, but I tell you it makes 
quite a considerable difference to your great- 
grandma. 

I wonder if I could make him want to marry me ? 
Gordon says any woman can have any man she likes 
if she pursues him vigorously enough, or eludes him 
— either does. He says there are two ways for a 
woman to get what she wants. Either chase it for 
all she is worth, or run from it in the same manner. 
It depends on the man. A girl used simply to throw 
herself at his greatest pal, and he used to laugh about 
her like anything to Gordon, but she’s Mrs. Pal now 
all the same. I wonder will I ever be Mrs. Bob ? 

I don’t think the family need have given Gordon 
quite such full and complete details all the same ; 
but you should have seen Fay and Fred give a dem- 
onstration of our parting at the gate — according to 
their notion of it of course. But Bob isn’t a bit like 
that when you know him ; he’s never tried once to 
kiss me since that night I refused him. 

Sometimes I wish he would. 

Gordon lay back in his armchair with his lazy 
length sprawling all over it, and watched me out of 
his specs. I do wish he wouldn’t wear them ; he 
has such nice eyes without, and he doesn’t need 
them really, except for reading, and I always pull 
them off when I can. I don’t believe he quite liked 
all they were saying about Bob, although he only 
laughed lazily once or twice, so I gave him my 
version later on. 


i86 


TIME DAY 


I always tell Gordon about my affairs, and he 
never seems to mind — we are only pals, you see. 
People who say platonic love isn’t possible don’t 
know what they are talking about. 

I asked him about Mr. Wymondham too, and I 
was quite amazed, for he got nearly as stirred up as 
Bob had, and Gordon rarely says anything nasty 
about anybody. But he said Mr. Wymondham is 
the most rotten rotter that ever rotted, or words to 
that effect, and he thought the same as Bob that 
it was a pretty bad advertisement for a girl to be 
seen alone with him. 

** See here, Thyme,” he said in the end, ** I don’t 
pretend to be a shining ornament in the saint line 
myself, but I’d sooner be classed with hogs than 
with that man. I’m not going into details — they 
wouldn’t sound pretty, besides it’s not my business. 
I’ll tell you one thing, though I don’t suppose it 
matters, for he makes no secret of it. He travels a 
fair bit round the coast, as you maybe know ” — I 
nodded — “ what for, he and his father the devil alone 
know, though he says it’s business, and he makes it 
a boast, among men of course — a boast, though — 
that he never makes a trip without a liaison with 
some girl on board. That’s the sort of man he is.” 

** Oh,” I breathed. 

Gordon got up abruptly. I’m sorry to have to 
tell you things like that,” he said, but you asked 
me, you know. And now let’s talk of something 
else.” 

No wonder Bob hopes he’s not a friend of mine. 


IN THE GARDEN 


187 

But I can hardly believe it. He looks quite demure 
and proper and English, as a rule, and he can be 
charming, they say, though I never found him so. 
He always irritated me — at least, no, to be honest, I 
remember in that old letter I found to Maida I raved 
over him. What a fool I must have been 1 

Oh, dear, it seems a week since I saw Bob, and it 
was only yesterday. Oh, I forgot to tell you, my 
dears, the Lawrances have got a house at Thirroul, 
and we are going down next week. I hope it will 
be fun. I wonder who else will be going. I couldn’t 
ask Dolly, for she only rang up on the ’phone this 
afternoon to say it was all arranged, and she was in 
a hurry, so I couldn’t ask questions. 

I must remember to-morrow morning to drop poor 
Vane a line to tell him how Ada is. I believe she 
misses him, although she’d die sooner than confess 
it. But she likes me to talk about him, and that’s a 
confession in itself. So I do most obligingly. I’m 
a good-natured fool, that’s what’s the matter with me. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


THE MOST EDUCATING THING IN THE WORLD 

PVE been down at Maida's all day. I havenT 
been neglecting her lately, although you might 
think so from my not putting down anything about 
her, but nothing particular has happened to tell. 
But they did make fun of me to-day there. My 
darling Peterjohn was so fretful I wondered aloud if 
he could be cutting a tooth, and Maida, when she 
heard me, sat down and howled with laughter. 
When she recovered enough for speech she in- 
formed me witheringly he couldn’t have teeth for 
months yet, babies don’t till they are six months at 
least. She needn’t have been so conceited about it, 
as I told her ; I bet she only learned that lately. I 
suppose she asked the doctor. She didn’t know 
any more about babies than I did before Peterjohn 
was born. It’s just beautiful the way she and Jack 
try to pretend, nowadays, there isn’t anything about 
domestic life they couldn’t give you points on, but I 
soon take the stuffing out of them with a few retro- 
spective remarks. 

But you can almost hear Peterjohn grow. He is 
getting a big boy, and I love him. I was telling Bob 
all about him the other day, but I don’t think he was 


THE MOST EDUCATING THING 189 

very interested, although he tried to look it. Men 
don’t seem to care about quite small babies until 
they belong to them, do they ? 

Oh 1 and while we’re talking of Bob, great-grand- 
children, what do you think is the latest? He is 
coming to Thirroul with us next week. Isn’t it 
lovely ? But I don’t suppose we shall get much of a 
chance of being together ; I think Dolly means him 
for herself. At least it looks that way to me. Mrs. 
Lawrance asked him to join them when he was 
round there the other night. Isn’t it absurd? I 
know their families are great friends, yet I feel as 
jealous as can be whenever he mentions casually 
that he’s been round there. And I’m nearly cer- 
tain he doesn’t like Dolly as much as me, either, 
but I can’t help feeling I wish he didn’t like her 
at all. 

It looks as if I’m for Dr. Philip after all, G.G.C., 
for the only other people going, besides Bob and 
me, are Lottie Hyles and Dave Davenport, and 
everybody knows they have been fond of each other 
for years, so they will pair off, and as you can’t ex- 
pect Dolly to bask in her brother’s society, it’s pretty 
obvious the way we four will have to divide. 

Isn’t it aggravating? It makes me wish he wasn’t 
going. I was rather pleased at first at the idea of 
having Dr. Philip, for most girls would envy me 
being made a fuss over by him, but if I’ve got to 
watch Bob being nice to Dolly all the time it will 
spoil every bit of it. 

He looked so fearfully pleased too when we found 


TIME DAY 


190 

out each other was going. He only said, ** Thaf s 
good,” but the way he said it sounded like, ‘‘ It’s the 
most scrumptious bit of news that ever was.” 

I wonder how he’ll like it when he finds out he’s 
booked for Dolly. I hope he’ll be vexed. 

I rather enjoyed myself half an hour ago. Ada 
came strolling into my room. I was just getting out 
my pen to write to you, G.G.C. She didn’t seem to 
want anything in particular (I believe she did ask me 
if I could lend her a darning needle), but she was in 
no hurry to go. She sat herself down on my bed 
and began to chat in a desultory fashion. For a 
while I couldn’t see the point, and when, of a sud- 
den, it dawned on me, I had to turn my back a 
second, till I could smother my smile. Do you 
know what it was, G.G.C.? I believe she was feel- 
ing a bit lonely, and wanted to talk about Vane, and 
I’m the only one who never really makes fun of her 
when she feels serious about it, and I don’t chuck 
up at her later on anything she tells me. 

But I did smile to myself — the haughty Ada feel- 
ing tender ! Of course she wouldn’t have admitted 
it. But she said she had had a letter from Vane, 
and he was feeling a bit doleful and sent his love to 
me. I beamed at her sympathetically, and at my 
suggestion she read me parts of the letter. I think 
it must have been rather tender in tone, for she 
stopped abruptly in the middle of some phrases and 
looked slightly pink. 

I simply can’t imagine any one having the pluck 
to be tender with Ada, but she doesn’t seem to mind, 


THE MOST EDUCATING THING 191 

does she ? I suppose these icy girls are the same as 
us underneath. 

You know I think this affair has improved Ada 
wonderfully, although dad says he’ll smack her and 
send her to bed if he hears of any nonsense from his 
triplets yet a while. Marje and I are quite enough 
for any self-respecting parent to get gray hairs over. 

But love is good for any one, I think. It’s the 
most educating thing in the world. If I could, I 
should insist on every one falling in love at least 
three times under thirty, we should have a lot less 
stupidity and mistakes in the world. Why, you 
learn diplomacy, tact, sympathy, how to be really 
happy, for the time anyway, practical insanity which 
has done half the great things of the world, poetry, 
music, human nature — in fact love. 

I’ve never been sorry for being in love with any 
one yet. You learn something fresh each time ; but 
of course it doesn’t do to take it too seriously. I al- 
ways see some humor in it, however badly I feel. 
One can’t be too thankful for a sense of humor, do 
you think ? 

But I feel more and more aggravated about Thir- 
roul every time I think of it ; if only some one else 
was going who could possibly distract Dolly, but 
Dave won’t be a bit of use, he and Lottie are far too 
absorbed in each other. I wonder why the Law- 
ranees asked them, perhaps because Lottie is a kind 
of relation. One often has to ask relations when 
one would sooner have some one else. They won’t 
add much to the gaiety of the party either, Dave 


192 


TIME O’ DAY 


won’t, anyway, he is terribly quiet, and shy too — a 
bit. He’s beginning to get over it now, but when 
he was a boy I ! 

Yes, old Dave was shy in those days. I mean 
when he was still at college, he used to be my boy . 
then, at least he wanted to be, but he was a bit too 
slow, for me. He used to sit on the lawn and gaze 
at me, and when his passion (presumably) reached 
boiling point he used to tickle my ear with a bit of 
grass. I 

That was daring for Dave. ! 

Shy men are a nuisance. If a man is too bold you 
can snub him, and that’s such a nice little pat to your 
vanity ; but when you’ve got to do all the daring j 
for him you might as well set up a teddy-bear and | 
talk to it. I used to tolerate him because he was 
such a fine-looking boy, and a prefect, and captain 
of the school football, and perhaps — yes, perhaps, it 
was a wee bit to make another boy jealous. That’s 
an awfully old feminine trick, isn’t it? But then 
love is such an old game itself ; it’s really impossible 
to be original in it. 

But I often smile to myself when I look at him 
and Lottie. It is rather funny to see the men who’ve 
been mad over you mad over other girls. It’s an- 
noying, too, in a way ; you have a feeling that once 
having tried you, so to speak, it’s impossible any 
other girl could ever completely satisfy them. 
Women have all got a pretty good opinion of them- 
selves. 

Oh, dear ! I ought to stop and sew, I’ve tons to 


THE MOST EDUCATING THING 193 

do. I want a new beach frock before next week. I 
got some rather pretty stuff to-day, a greeny greyey 
blue with red spots in it ; it sounds weird, but it looks 
nice all the same. 

I wonder if Bob will like it. 


CHAPTER XXV 


A BONZA FINISH 

Thank gracious yesterday is done I It was the 
most awful day that ever was ; I think it must have 
got out of the sky on the wrong side. To start with, 
dad gave us all a lecture in the morning — on politics, 
I mean — and he insisted on my attending, though I 
was dying to finish a new petticoat I had started 
before I had to begin fixing lunch. There are 
wretched elections next week, and referenda too to 
be voted on. Fd like to scrag that Labor Govern- 
ment ; it’s mad on getting centralization of power 
and is continually trying to bamboozle the people by 
different wordings to give it to them, though they’ve 
voted against it strongly. Perfect nuisance too 
wasting the citizens’ time making them go to the 
polls, to keep repeating they know their own minds 
when they might be doing so many other things. 
Of course we shall all have to go — dad sees to that. 
He says polling day is the one time he realizes that 
a big family has its uses. 

But imagine ! He actually suggested that I should 
take a turn with one of the cars that go round col- 
lecting people to take them to vote, as if I had noth- 
ing else to do with my time. Dad was wild when I 
said I wouldn’t, but Marje saved me from being a 


A BONZA FINISH 


»95 


gory corpse by offering to go in my place, though 
she is busy too. But Marje is rather keen on 
politics ; she can talk to dad about them quite intelli- 
gently ; we others just hold our breath and look on. 

The only bright spot in the day was Bob. I met 
him, though I wished him miles farther when I first 
set eyes on him. Fve seen him nearly every day this 
last week. Things happen that way sometimes, 
don’t they ? especially if you try to help them hap- 
pen. The night before last Ada and I met him just 
before dinner ; we were taking a stroll round the 
neighborhood, and he came along in his car. He 
pulled up when he saw us, and had a yarn, and he 
coaxed us to get in and go for a short run with him. 
I asked him what he was doing round our neighbor- 
hood, and he said he was just out for a run ; he 
wasn’t going anywhere in particular, and happened 
to get round this way in his travels. 

Then we caught each other’s eye and laughed. 
It’s funny how men like to have a look at the neigh- 
borhood of a girl if they can’t see the girl herself. 
I’ve noticed the symptom before. 

But yesterday I could have died of shame. I took 
young Peterjohn to Coogee for the afternoon. He 
had been fretful the day before, and Maida thought 
some sea air would do him good ; and she wanted to 
go shopping, and it was the nurse’s day out, so I 
stepped heroically into the breach and offered to take 
him. So behold me setting out, clad spotlessly in a 
white frock and big white hat, and Peterjohn all in 
white too, looking a perfect cherub. Everybody 


TIME DAY 


196 

thought he was a love on the tram and that I was his 
mother, and I swelled with pride at the complimen- 
tary glances cast at him just as if I had been. 

But oh I you should have seen us coming home. 
He got one of his naughty fits, and howled and 
shrieked till I could have wept myself with mortifica- 
tion. Oh 1 he did behave badly. He made a fright- 
ful noise, and one woman kept looking impatiently 
in my direction, and I heard her mutter something 
about noisy brats and they should be kept at home. 
And I went scarlet and more scarlet, and my dress 
got crumpled from the way he wriggled on me, and 
when I cuddled him up close to try and quiet him, 
he wound his fingers in my hair and half-pulled it 
down. I don’t know what on earth I looked like I 
I suppose “ disreputable ” would not have covered 
it by half. 

I never was so glad to get out of anything as that 
car when it reached Circular Quay, and I looked 
desperately about for a taxi, but there wasn’t one in 
sight, and I couldn’t see a policeman, and at that mo- 
ment the Watson’s Bay car stopped beside me, so I 
thought I’d chance it and get in. Peterjohn had 
stopped yelling as soon as we got out of the other 
car, and it was high time he was home in bed. But 
it seemed he was only laying for me, for I’d no sooner 
entered our own car than he started performing 
again. I could have gone through the floor. I 
didn’t know what to do. I tried everything. I 
dandled him, I shook him, I petted him, I scolded 
him, I even tried to half-smother him with his shawl. 


A BONZA FINISH 


197 


to the visible indignation of an old lady sitting op- 
posite. Oh I I can see the funny side of it now, 
but I tell you at the time, to be sitting in a crowded 
car looking as if you had been pulled through a bush 
backward, and nursing a baby screaming at the top 
of its voice, and with half the people pitying you and 
the other half exasperated — well, there are lots of 
things more enjoyable. 

And to add the last finishing stroke to our dis- 
reputableness, Peterjohn was sick — it doesn’t sound 
elegant, but babies aren’t elegant in their manners, 
except in books — and it went all down the front of 
my dress as well as his own. That was the last 
straw. I was never so humiliated in my life. If I 
could have gone any redder, I would have, but I 
couldn’t. And, to crown all, who should walk into 
the car that identical minute but Bob ! 

I felt so ashamed and dirty and horrible that I 
wouldn’t look at him. I hoped he wouldn’t notice 
me, but he did of course, and came and sat down 
next to me. I call it positively heroic, considering 
how Peterjohn and I both looked. And he was so 
jolly and matter-of-fact about it, somehow I felt better 
in a second. He just said as he sat down and 
surveyed the mess : 

“ You seem to have a contract on here. Shall I 
hold him for you a bit while you straighten your- 
self?” 

** Oh, he’s too dirty,” I said. ” Besides, could 
you ? ” 

“ Gracious, yes,” he said. ” I’ve handled kiddies 


TIME DAY 


198 

before now. Come on, old chappie,” and he took 
him up quite deftly, yells and all. Then he handed 
me his hanky, saying it was a more sensible size 
than mine, and in a minute I had mopped myself 
up and straightened my hair with a pin or two, once 
I had my hands free and could get to my bag, and 
in a twinkling I looked almost tidy again. 

G.G.C., I could have hugged him. I reckon he 
was an out-and-out brick ; not every man by a long 
chalk would have come and claimed acquaintance 
under those conditions. He could easily have pre- 
tended not to see me in that crowd, and I shouldn’t 
have blamed him either ; and whether it was Peter- 
john liked his arms better than mine or felt happier 
after being sick, I don’t know, for he stopped crying 
and went to sleep. Bob wouldn’t give him back to 
me then for fear of waking him, and he got out of 
the car with me ; and I’m sure, from the benevolent 
way several people regarded us, they thought we 
were his mamma and papa. One man even said as 
we stepped out, ‘‘You’ve a fine boy,” and Bob 
chuckled and I blushed. I felt such a fool. 

He insisted on carrying him to Maida’s for me, 
and when I protested it was taking him out of his 
way, he said he had only been going to Lawrances’. 
He had thought he’d drop in there to dinner, but 
they weren’t expecting him, so it didn’t matter. 
Maida interpreted my look correctly when we re- 
stored her erring son to her, and asked him to stay 
to dinner. He refused at first ; he wanted to, but he 
didn’t like to — you see he had only met her once — 


A BONZA FINISH 


199 


but I explained this was my second home, and 
Maida said that by the time he got to Lawrances’ 
dinner would be over, especially as they weren’t ex- 
pecting him, and wouldn’t be disappointed if he 
didn’t turn up, and Jack clinched the matter by 
strolling in and saying that if everybody didn’t 
come to dinner soon, and stop arguing, he’d eat the 
lot he was so hungry. So of course he stayed ; he 
wanted to all the time. 

And it was so jolly and picnicky feeling, just the 
four of us. We kept laughing at nothing at all, we 
all seemed so happy, and Maida and I cheeked each 
other, and the men seemed to get on well. And we 
played bridge after dinner, and Bob and I beat them 
hollow, and then he took me home. It was bonza^ 
the finish up. 

And Maida said I was quite right when I told her 
all that had happened ; he was a perfect dear. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


THE SECRET PLACES 

Why on earth is everybody Gordon-mad ? Even 
Maida tackled me about him to-day. I was sur- 
prised, though we can say anything to each other 
naturally. But this afternoon in the middle of darn- 
ing a sock she looked up abruptly, when I told her 
I was going skating with Gordon, and remarked : 

“ Timmy ” (that’s Maida’s own very pet name for 
me, no one but her is ever allowed to use it ; she 
gave it to me when we were at school). Timmy, 
don’t you think you are going a bit strong with 
Gordon now, that is if you mean to have the copper- 
head?” 

I was so astounded I simply gaped at her for the 
minute. “ My dear kid,” I said at length, “ I don’t 
mean to have either ; at least, of course Bob mightn’t 
ever want me, and I’m positive Gordon won’t.” 

‘‘ Humph ! ” Maida commented. 

Good gracious I Can Gordon be in love with me ? 
Oh, rot ! it’s conceit to imagine it for a minute. He 
hasn’t time for marriage ; he says so. He says too 
he’d be sorry for any girl that did marry him — he is 
such an erratic rolling stone. So should I. He has 
the queerest ideas about marriage too ; they wouldn’t 
suit me, not some of them anyway. He says he 
would consider his wife his equal in all things, and 


THE SECRET PLACES 


201 


if he got on his ear or played her false, he couldn’t, 
as a mere matter of justice, complain if she did the 
same. And he would expect her to work, the same 
as himself. He’s like dad, who doesn't believe in 
women being idle, only he's more so. He says it’s 
downright wrong for a man to strain every nerve to 
keep a woman in idleness, it's overtaxing the man 
and at the same time spoiling the woman’s develop- 
ment, for the human race progresses only by work. 
He believes in everybody working. He doesn't 
think there ought to be anybody rich enough not to 
have to. 

But I believe he'd be a lot nicer to a woman than 
he pretends, all the same. Down deep he’s fond of 
them. I remember one night at the beginning of 
the summer. We were lying on the beach at our 
back gate about sundown, and we got to talking 
about love and women and things, and Gordon ad- 
mitted he had a streak of romance in him, only he 
rarely let it get loose. It was that funny half-gloomy 
time of day that makes you confess things you wish 
you hadn't afterward. I remember his saying that 
at times he wished he wasn’t so suspicious and could 
let himself go like other men. He said that some- 
times he felt he’d like a woman to love him so much 
that if he died she’d find life unbearable and poison 
herself, or never smile again, or go mad, or some- 
thing like that. He laughed at himself even while 
he said it. 

“You’ll think me an idiot, Thyme,” he said, “and 
it is idiotic and silly and vain and egotistical and 


202 


TIME O’ DAY 


downright ludicrous, and she would be a hateful sort 
of woman who would, and I hope I never meet her, 
and yet, do you know ” — he made a comic grimace 
at me — ‘T’d rather like to.” 

But when I asked him why he didn’t get married 
if he felt like that, he said because he felt like that 
was the reason he didn’t. 

Isn’t he queer ? 

But he went on to explain that he preferred to be 
a looker-on at the game of love. “ The critic. 
Thyme,” he said, “ can judge and weigh unbiased, 
but if he enters the arena himself he loses his pleas- 
ure of discrimination. Besides, I can’t delude my- 
self enough for it. Marriage and love are mostly 
delusion. Most men marry some particular sort of 
girl because they fancy she is some other sort. And, 
lastly, can you imagine any girl being fool enough 
to marry me, for I can’t.” 

“ Oh, yes I can,” I protested, “ if only you weren’t 
so — so unfeeling ; at least, that’s not it, so — so ” 

“ No, I’m not unfeeling,” Gordon broke in as I 
hesitated, “ I’m just the opposite, but I’m the unfor- 
tunate victim of a passion for analysis. I dissect 
everything, especially my own emotions, and that of 
course is the dead finish to them. The average man, 
when he feels he loves a girl, says contentedly, ‘ This 
is //,’ and wades in and enjoys himself ; but when I 
feel that way I say to myself, ‘ Am I sure it’s it, and 
if so, why so, etc.?’ The trouble is I’ve got too 
much imagination, and imagination can be the death 
as well as the birth of love.” 


THE SECRET PLACES 


203 


I’ve given up trying to understand him. 

“ But, Gordon,” I said, “ you wouldn’t like your 
wife to be a drudge, would you ? If you knew how 
I hate housework,” I added pathetically. 

“ But you like cooking and sewing,” he pointed 
out. 

“ But I don’t suppose I would if I could afford 
not to.” 

“All the more reason your husband should see 
you couldn’t afford not to,” Gordon retorted unfeel- 
ingly. “A woman ought to do her whack, the 
same as every one else. If men troubled to analyze 
their motives, most of them would find the main rea- 
son they support their wives and daughters in idle 
luxury is because it reflects glory on themselves : it 
is a proof to the world of their success or wealth. I 
don’t believe any of us, men or women, were put 
into this world to be parasites on our fellows. And 
the women who work are, nine times out of ten, 
happier. I mean work, of course, not drudge ; 
drudgery is as bad as idleness. I think the happiest 
woman I ever knew was a Mrs. MacCormack, who 
lived near our camp in the west. She used to look 
after her six kids, do all the housework, feed four 
adults, and cook for five shearers, and she did it 
singing. But of course I reckon she had it a bit too 
thick.” 

“I’m glad you think that,” I said sarcastically. 
“ Men so seldom consider that housework is any- 
thing but a delicate amusement for an unoccupied 
half-hour.” 


204 


TIME DAY 


“ Rubbish 1 ” Gordon contradicted. “ There^s not 
much you can teach me about a house. Why, all 
the time I was in the west I washed and mended 
my own clothes and did most of the cooking for the 
camp. I was a dab at stews and curries and fried 
kangaroo. I tell you a kangaroo steak cooked by 
yours truly is not bad, so you needn’t turn up your 
nose more than heaven meant it should. Miss O’Dea. 
I kept the three rooms of our hut as clean as — well, 
as clean as possible. Sunday was the day for sweep- 
ing and dusting. Why, I’ve spent a whole Sunday 
afternoon sitting over the wash-tub cursing at the 
clothes that wouldt^t come clean. The only thing I 
barred was scrubbing ; I’d never gotten down to it 
before that day at Maida’s.” 

We both laughed at the recollection. We were 
arguing about it again coming home from the 
skating rink, and as we were saying good-bye at 
the gate Gordon said suddenly to me, in just the 
same way in which he informs me I’m losing a hair- 
pin : 

“ Thyme, you are getting prettier than ever.” 

I only made a little grimace, but I felt fright- 
fully pleased, for if Gordon says it it must be 
true. 

He leaned his arms on the gate and rested his 
chin on them and stared at me. He looked such a 
giant in the half-shadow of the magnolia tree, and 
he said slowly : 

“ Do you know what you remind me of, Thyme ? 
— a verse of Richardson’s : 


THE SECRET PLACES 


205 


** * The fine line makes a perfect arc 
Above the level brows, 

No lily mates the swift white throat 
That e’er in garden grows, 

Her little parted lips make pale 
The red heart of the rose.’ 

like that last line especially. Your lips are 
gloriously red, Thyme; you don’t color them, do 
you ? ” 

I just gasped, but before I could recover enough 
presence of mind to slay him, he dragged his watch out. 

“ Heavens ! ” he said, I’m years late. There’ll 
be a row at the office. I’ve got to work all night 
now. Good-bye, kid.” 

And in a minute he had vanished. 

Isn’t he a queer old thing? 

Ida says he’s in love with me, too, but that he 
doesn’t know it because he doesn’t want to marry. 
He doesn’t, you know. He likes to wander round 
the world, just as the humor takes him, and he 
couldn’t do that if he had a wife and children ex- 
pecting him to bring home the necessary sixpence 
on Saturday night. Ida thinks he is so firmly con- 
vinced he doesn’t want to settle down that he never 
realizes he’s thinking of a woman that way, even 
when he suspects he loves her a bit. I think she’s 
nearly right, don’t you ? 

We had rather a bonza yarn to-night. I never 
met a woman so interesting to talk to as she is. I 
think her charm is that she isn’t in the least afraid 
to say what she thinks, and she thinks in a way all 


2o6 


TIME DAY 


her own. It’s rather exciting at times : she reminds 
me of a beef olive — you never know, till you bite on 
it, whether it’s going to taste of seasoning or meat. 
And there’s plenty of seasoning with her. Even 
Gordon admits she’s fascinating, in fact when he 
was talking of her the other day I felt almost jealous. 
He said she had a strong physical appeal to men to 
start off with, she was three-quarters that and so not 
out of the common, but the fourth quarter of her 
was brain, and that, on top of the other, was what 
made her a problem. Goodness only knows why 
she likes talking to me ; perhaps for the same reason 
Gordon does, that I’m a good audience. 

She says it’s because I’m so delightfully young. 
And when I pointed out she wasn’t many years 
older herself, she crossed her pretty feet and sighed. 

It isn’t years make age. Daytime,” she said, “ it’s 
feelings. If we were the same age it wouldn’t make 
any difference; you’ve got the spirit of it and I 
haven’t now. I had once, but I think it died in me 
when I found out about Lester. I don't suppose 
you understand ; of course I am young still, and I 
feel it, at times, but the flame of youth died in me, 
the fine frenzy of it, the joyous carelessness. You’ve 
got that hugely, and I had it too when I married. I 
was only a youngster. Thyme, and then — you see it 
made a woman of me suddenly. It came upon me 
so cruelly, so suddenly cruelly, that life was serious. 
Ever since that night life’s been a bit of a task, even 
when I’m happy, never the delicious joke it used to 
be. I lost then, for good I suppose, the take-no- 


THE SECRET PLACES 


.207 

thought kind of feel, the sense that to-morrow’s sure 
to have an unexpected bit of fun up its sleeve. 

“ Oh, Daytime 1 What wouldn’t you have given 
to have been a Greek ? Fancy to have really be- 
lieved in Bacchus, to have heard him piping dimly 
in the blue shadows of the morning, and to have 
followed him barefoot, breathless, till he found for 
you the secret places of your soul.” 

Her voice dropped to a kind of croon as she said 
this, and she stared through the window to the dark 
wetness outside. “ Oh, Daytime I ” she said softly, 
“ the wonder in this old world that we never see. 
We’re the only things that spoil it, and we’re the 
only things that can see it.” 

She went on staring outside, with her eyes grow- 
ing bigger and bigger. “ Come here. Daytime,” 
she said, still in her queer, croony voice. ** Come 
and look. See the almond trees watching us there, 
how still they are, like a dawning thought against 
the tyranny of the dark : see the petals flutter, 
flutter down, like little pink good wishes, to lie in 
dim drifts along the paths, soft and silent. You 
cannot see my stocks now, the corner there is full of 
them ; when the sun wakes to-morrow they will rise 
up to clothe afresh my jaded mind, a garment of 
rose and cream and purple. And next to them are 
the violets, blue and delicate. Press one to your 
lips, it will not shrink from you, like your fellow men 
and women, because they are hot and ashamed — 
even the frosted grass is pure.” 

She was silent again a little. ” Oh, the magic of 


2o8 


TIME O’ DAY 


the world, the glory, and cruelty, and purity, and 
lust of it 1 Daytime, why was I born a woman ? 
Why was I born to love ? I can't help it. Daytime, 
I can't. I can't live without love. I hate myself 
and life for it, but I can't help it." 

I do love it when she talks like that, and just in 
the middle Lance Lester and a couple of other men 
came in and spoilt it all, so I went home. 

I wonder what Bob would think of her. She says 
she's never met him. I wonder if she really hasn't. 
I suppose that's a queer thing to say, but Ida doesn't 
always quite tell the truth, and, somehow, I fancied after 
I had been telling her about him, and asked casually 
if she knew him, that she hesitated a bit before she 
answered “No." I suppose it was just imagination, 
for why should she lie about it ? But still, great-grand- 
children, it does seem queer that there should be a 
check signed R. H. Gale lying on her desk, doesn't it? 

I saw it to-night, when I was getting a stamp for her. 
She said it was her husband's — a business check — but 
it seemed to me she was rather anxious to convince 
me that it was her husband's ; why should she think 
I'd need convincing? I don't know why I should be 
thinking about it like this, it's certainly none of my 
business I wonder whether there was ever any- 

thing between her and Bob, and she thinks I might 
be jealous of her if I knew. I'm not such an idiot. 

Gracious 1 I have an imagination. I suppose 
she's telling the truth, and that's why it sounds 
peculiar; truth really often does sound the most 
unlikely explanation. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


VOTING DAY 

To-day is voting day. Such a beastly nuisance. 
I hate voting, and I don’t know many women who 
don’t. It seems queer those English suffragettes 
should be so crazy about it, it won’t be much use to 
them when they do get it, most women vote just 
about as their husbands or fathers tell them. 

Gordon voted for Labor, or said he was going to, 
but I shan’t tell dad, he would be so mad. Gordon’s 
a Socialist, so he says, but it’s hard to know exactly 
what any one means by that now there are so many 
brands, isn’t it? I think he’s just the sort that be- 
lieves in equal opportunity, or something like that. 
He gave me a real old lecture when I grumbled 
about voting. He told me I ought to be ashamed of 
myself for not appreciating my privileges as a citizen. 
He admires the English suffragettes because they are 
fighters, he says they are going neck or nothing for 
what they want, and there are so few people in this 
world who even know what they want, let alone 
go for it. He says women as a rule are a jolly 
sight too meek, they don’t insist enough on their 
rights as human beings. But he really isn’t very 
consistent there, for not so very long ago when we 
were having a discussion on natural rights (our dis- 


210 


TIME DAY 


cussions, G.G.C., are a lecture by Gordon with me 
for audience and interrogatory) he told me that the 
only natural rights of a man in a community were 
those his community decided were fit and proper he 
should have. 

I said I didn’t want any old rights if they weren’t 
given to me, and I wouldn’t make an exhibition of 
myself like the suffragettes do and forget all womanly 
decency, but Gordon upheld them for all he was 
worth ; he says they are fighting for an ideal, and 
that in itself is uplifting (fancy calling smashing in- 
nocent peoples’ windows and burning their houses 
and smacking policemen’s faces “ uplifting ” !). 

“Women are just waking up,” he said, “once 
they make up their minds what they want — all of 
them and not only the enlightened minority — they 
will get it, you simply can’t stop them. To want, 
that’s life. To be always seeking. But women don’t 
seek ; the objective of most of them is marriage and 
they just drift toward that. The awful placidity with 
which the average girl waits for it — why, I even 
admire more the girl who schemes and plans for an 
advantageous match than the girl who takes the 
first chance that comes her way. At least the first 
girl is working, even if in an ignoble way. Every 
one should be interested and working at something, 
should have some object and go for it baldheaded.” 

It amused me the different way Bob treated me 
when I talked about it to him. He said : 

“ It’s just too bad such a dear little head should 
be bothered with questions like that, isn’t it ? I don’t 


VOTING DAY 


211 


think women ought to have the vote ** — he glanced 
sideways at me to see the effect of his heresy — “ but, 
seriously, I don^t think it’s a woman’s province at all, 
do you ? Her duties lie elsewhere.” 

I looked non-committal. “ What do you think a 
girl’s duty is, then ? ” I demanded. 

He laughed. ‘‘Why, to love pretty things and 
look as nice as she can, and when she has done that 
it is a man’s duty to admire her. There is no nicer 
sight in the world than a pretty girl prettily dressed. 
That frock makes your eyes look like forget-me- 
nots,” he added. 

Sometimes, though, I wish Bob didn’t think looks 
are the only thing that counts. Because I don’t 
think I’m altogether stupid. I can understand 
things if they are explained to me, even politics. I 
was quite interested in an article in the Bulletin dad 
read us last night. It was on strikes, and one 
couldn’t help being interested, there have been so 
many lately in Sydney. As the article starts off, 
” Everybody in and around Sydney is, or has been, 
or soon expects to be on strike.” That gas strike 
was perfectly awful the other week, you couldn’t go 
out at nights at all, and then the ferry strike on top 
of that was a delicate finish, since you couldn’t go 
out in the daytime either, at least not those on the 
North Shore ; it didn’t affect us at Rose Bay, and of 
course we had our own motor-boat if we did want 
to cross the harbor. But the train strike on the heels 
of that was the limit. Three separate public strikes 
all in a few weeks — what do you think of that, G.G.C. ? 


212 


TIME DAY 


The article opposed the strikes. Dad was im- 
mensely tickled with it, the more so as the Bulletin is 
generally considered to favor Labor, but the situation, 
as the paper put it, is a bit humorous. It said : 

“ At present the Labor Party owns Parliament 
and the Government of New South Wales. Through 
them it bosses the railways. Through them also it 
controls the whole machinery of Industrial Arbitra- 
tion, which was devised to make strikes unnecessary, 
illegal, and impossible, and it is on chronic strike 
against arbitration. If unionism believes that the 
strike — the simple old device of industrial warfare — 
is the best way of settling differences, then it should 
call on its Ministry and its Parliamentary majority to 
wipe all arbitration devices off the local statute book. 
Then the position would be clear and honest.” 

I really enjoyed dad’s reading that, I think it was 
so clever and sarcastic, don't you, G.G.C. ? I love 
sarcasm, and really strikes are most inconvenient 
and upsetting. 

I must stop now and pack my suit-case ; we are 
going down to Thirroul to-morrow morning. I hope 
it will be fine, we are going to motor there ; if the 
weather is anything like to-day it ought to be great, 
and I love going through the Bulli Pass, with its 
thick green of trees and palms on either hand, and 
then coming out full to the view of the sea rocking 
beneath you. 

My beach frock looks so nice, and I have made 
myself the sweetest afternoon frock of white sponge 
cloth, with a blue tie and buttons. Blue does suit 


VOTING DAY 213 

me best. Oh ! I do hope our Easter will be fun. I 
wonder if anything exciting will happen. Isn’t it 
fun wondering about things beforehand ? They are 
never like you expect. 

Well, bye-bye, G.G.C. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


AT THIRROUL 

It’s simply gorgeous down here ; we’ve only been 
two days but it seems weeks, you settle down so 
quickly to any new arrangement, and after you get 
used to it a bit it seems hard to believe you were 
ever anything else. Maida even says that when she 
visits her mother now it seems incredible she lived 
twenty years of her life in that house, she feels so 
alien somehow. Human beings are pretty adaptable, 
and you can grow out of a thing as quickly as you 
can grow into it. 

We’ve got the dearest little house, a perfect seaside 
place. It belongs to some friends of the Lawrances^ 
who built it themselves for week-ends and holidays, 
and who offered it to them for Easter as they were 
going to Tasmania. It is a duck of a place ; it has 
just one big living-room, and all the bedrooms are 
down a passage leading off one end of it, and a stair- 
case at the back leads up to the flat covered roof. 
My favorite spot is the huge window-seat that looks 
right down on the sea ; it will hold two people easily, 
lying opposite ways, and the window runs the whole 
length of the seat ; it is a glorious idea. If it is too 
boisterous to go out you can sprawl there and watch 


AT THIRROUL 


^15 

the surf. It is a bit cold for bathing now, at least 
for us girls, though we went in this afternoon to try ; 
I don^t think I will again, though ; I got perfectly 
blue and shivery, and I hate looking a fright any 
time. The only comfort I had was that the other 
girls looked bluer than I did. 

WeVe been here two days now. The boys are 
not here yet, they and Mrs. Lawrance arrive to- 
morrow. There’s just Dolly and Lottie and me. We 
haven’t even got the maids with us, they are coming 
when the men do, we thought it would be better fun 
to do for ourselves. We are having fun too ; Dolly 
can be charming when she likes, and at present you’d 
think we’d been inseparable since we were born. 
Breakfast this morning was a great lark, we had it 
somewhere after ten, when we woke up. Dolly and 
I got up and made it. Lottie hugged herself up in 
the clothes, saying she’d sooner go without than get 
out of her nice warm bed yet a while, so Dolly and I 
went out in our kimonos and made tea and toast, and 
got a huge glass of cream the milkman had left, and 
a pot of jam, and dumped the lot on a small table in 
Lottie’s room and ate it in there. Mrs. Lawrance 
would have had a fit if she could have seen us. 

We routed Lottie out of bed and made her put a 
gown on, and she sat on the edge of the bed with 
her hair tumbling all round her. She looked so nice, 
for she has clouds of hair ; I told her it was a pity 
Dave couldn’t see her at that moment and he’d pro- 
pose on the spot, if he hadn’t done so already, and 
she threw a piece of bread at me, but unfortunately 


2i6 time day 

she took a piece with jam on it, and made me in a 
sticky mess. 

But isn’t it fun being mad and disreputable on 
occasions? I haven’t enjoyed a breakfast so for 
years, and Dolly and I looked worse freaks than 
Lottie; every time we looked at each other we’d 
burst out laughing. Dolly was the funniest; she 
said she’d be the man of the party, so she took off 
her kimono and stood arrayed in bloomers and bare 
legs, finished off with red satin slippers, and with her 
short hair sticking out round her face she looked not 
unlike a gollywog. 

I tied a shawl round my middle, and a scarf round 
my head, and made up as a dancing girl, but Lottie 
had a sudden inspiration and surpassed us all. She 
draped a sheet tightly over her nightgown, and 
pinned another over her head and shoulders to make a 
veil and train, and said she was a bride, and, do you 
know, she looked downright lovely ; she has such a 
good figure and the swathed dress effect gave it full 
value. So I in turn draped another sheet round me 
for a surplice, and to the strains of the wedding-march 
played on the gramaphone, married her to Dolly for 
Dave — if poor Dave could have seen us I 

But we enjoyed it hugely, and we got breakfast 
over about twelve and got dressed ; we didn’t feel 
like lunch then so we went for a walk on the beach. 
Isn’t the sea air great when it’s strong and sharp, and 
every gulp makes you feel you are taking a new 
lease of life ? And we gossiped and sang and limer- 
icked, and told each other naughty stories, the sort 


AT THIRROUL 


217 


that husbands tell their wives sometimes with strict 
injunctions not to tell any one else — anyway we en- 
joyed ourselves. 

But Fm wondering, yes, Pm wondering, G.G.C., 
if Dolly will be quite as nice to me to-morrow. Lottie 
happened to say something about Mr. Gale to-night, 
and she gave us an instant dissertation on the ancient 
quality of their friendship with the whole family of 
Gales, and how much she and Bob had liked each 
other when he was at college. (I don^t know 
whether I explained that the Lawrances are really 
Melbourne people, and have only been in Sydney a 
few years.) Oh, she held forth in a most pointedly 
keep-off-the- grass fashion. Lottie isn’t any too smart 
at seeing hidden jokes as a rule, but even she gave 
me a friendly wink. 

Even her friends see the humor of Dolly. 

I rather wish they weren’t coming to-morrow, it 
will bust up the happy home for sure. Dolly won’t 
love me any more, and Lottie will get stupid as soon 
as Dave puts in an appearance, she has eyes for no 
one but him. Now, alone with the girls she’s quite 
jolly, and not a bit goody or prim, but when Dave’s 
about you’d think she spent every spare second prac- 
ticing “ prunes and prisms.” 

So Pm sure she must be going to marry him. I 
suppose that is why she’s been going to the School 
of Mines lately for cooking and things. She told me 
she is taking the course in domestic economy. She’s 
got some sense anyway, for Dave hasn’t a bean to 
bless himself with, and Lottie doesn’t know a thing 


2i8 


TIME O’ DAY 


about housekeeping. Her mother never lets her do 
a thing about the place, not even make her own bed. 
They’re as rich as rich, her father is a mining man, 
but even then I think it’s a ridiculous way to bring 
a girl up. Money’s a kittle thing, you never know 
when you might lose it, or want to marry a quite 
poor man as Lottie does. 

And anyway, dad says every woman ought to 
know how everything should be done even if she 
doesn’t actually do them, or how can she tell why 
things are wrong, if they are, or where ? You’d never 
make a man head of a department unless he knew 
the details of it to tell if his subordinates were doing it 
right, and as running a house is the average woman’s 
job, she ought to know if it is running smoothly, and, 
if not, to detect where the fault lies. 

He says he wouldn’t bring us up differently if he 
had five times as much money as he has, and we’re 
not exactly paupers now, you know, though I don’t 
know exactly how much he is worth. He did tell 
us a few years ago, but such a lot of it is land, and 
the value of that fluctuates so, doesn’t it ? Tam is 
worrying him at present to buy the’station next ours, 
it’s on the market. The last man who owned it was 
an Englishman straight out from home, who didn’t 
know how to manage the place. Tam reckons he 
could do with the extra miles for our stock now 
they’ve increased so with these last good seasons. 

You’d love Tam, G.G.C. He’s a real old bushy, 
never happier than when he’s out in the scrub. He 
hates town now, and only comes down to see us on 


AT THIRROUL 


219 

rare occasions, or when he wants dad to buy some- 
thing he doesn’t want to. 

The station Tam wants has got such a comic name, 
the first owner was an Irishman and real funny, dad 
says, and he called it “ Willigobung.” It doesn’t 
look much funnier than Willibindi till you say it 
slowly and catch the meaning. 

Dad roared when Mr. O’Rourke told him what he 
had christened it. He did go bung too, poor man, 
and shot himself. 

Well, it’s bedtime, and the gramaphone has just 
sung us a lullaby, so I’ll toddle. Good-night, G.G.C. 
I wonder, will Dolly kiss me good-night to-morrow ? 


CHAPTER XXIX 


A QUEER COURTSHIP 

If you ask me, I’m a prophetess. Dolly’s man- 
ner to me has been growing steadily colder since the 
boys’ arrival. I had meant to be very polite and re- 
served in front of her, so as not to give her a chance 
to say I was trying to cut her out, but I suppose it 
was the unceremonious way they landed on us put it 
all out of my head, and I was quite nice and natural. 

We hadn’t expected them till dinner and we were 
sauntering through lunch about half-past three (thank 
heaven we were dressed decorously ! ) when the motor 
tooted outside, and in tumbled Mrs. Lawrance and 
the three boys. Of course you can imagine the polite 
way they commented on our orderliness, having 
meals at such hours, and everybody talked at once, 
and we loudly defended ourselves ; and Dave said the 
drive had made him hungry and helped himself to 
custard ; and Dolly kissed the back of his head think- 
ing it was Dr. Philip, and all round it was a joyous 
pandemonium. 

I clean forgot about being stiff and joined in the 
racket, jollying everybody and giving as good as I 
got. And Bob would listen to me with a half-smile 
on his face, even when Dolly was talking to him ; 
she could tell he had one ear elsewhere and it made 


A QUEER COURTSHIP 221 

her sulky at once. He told me it seemed an age 
since he had seen me last. I only made a face at 
him and laughed, but I do hope it was true. 

Dolly wouldn’t let him sit anywhere near me at 
table ; she put him by herself at the opposite side of 
the table, but every now and then he smiled at me. 
He was very nice to her and talked a lot about the 
drive down, but I felt all the time his inside self was 
talking to me and telling me how glad he was to see 
me again. 

We built a sand castle together this morning. 
Don’t laugh at your great-grandmother, children, but 
it’s so comfortable to be silly at times. I suggested 
it, and before any one else could say a word he broke 
in : 

“ Ripping idea ! Come on. Miss O’Dea, we’ll see 
if we can build the biggest.” 

He calls me Miss O’Dea in front of Dolly, and 
I call him Mr. Gale. Somehow we have to, she 
makes such a hostile feeling in the air you can’t be 
naturally friendly. We have to pretend, and every 
time we say each other’s names our eyes laugh at 
each other. It seems such a joke. 

But Dolly’s the biggest joke, she doesn’t like my 
being here one little bit now, and she isn’t very good 
at hiding her feelings. Every now and again I have 
to chuckle. Bob must notice it too, for once or twice 
I’ve caught his eye when she has attempted to sit on 
me, and he has twinkled understandingly. I believe 
she’d like me to go home, but I shan’t if for no other 
reason than not to give her the satisfaction of driving 


222 


TIME O’ DAY 


me away. Besides, Mrs. Lawrance would be vexed 
if I did make an excuse, for she is rather fond of me, 
and Dr. Philip really spreads himself to make my 
stay agreeable. 

He’s so much nicer when you know him well. I 
love making him laugh ; he always seems unwilling 
to, but I drag one out every now and then, and every 
time I do it Mrs. Lawrance beams at me. But I do 
wish he was just a little less correct and proper ; I 
don’t seem able to talk to him like I can to other 
men, but he doesn’t seem to mind, he just sits con- 
tentedly on, at least I presume he’s content since he 
sits on. I’d like to shake him sometimes for being 
so slow, especially when I see Bob and Dolly talking 
confidentially out of earshot. I think Bob would 
really rather make a four of it, but she won’t let him ; 
once he suggested joining us, out loud, and of course 
Dolly had to, but she was furious about it, I could 
see. Dr. Philip was pleased, he’s ridiculously fond 
of Bob. She keeps him to herself though since. I 
don’t know how she has the face to do it. I couldn’t 
chain a man to my side by moral suasion when I 
knew he’d rather be talking to another girl, could 
you, G.G.C. ? 

It does seem aggravating. Bob wants to be with me, 
I know — a girl can always tell — and I want him too, 
and we' simply can’t be. We can’t throw Dolly and 
Dr. Philip on each other’s company, but I’m sure Bob’s 
wild with her for not having another couple we could 
change round with, for Lottie and Dave you couldn’t 
force apart with a chisel. I think it’s bad taste in 


A QUEER COURTSHIP 223 

them myself, to be so absorbed in each other in a 
party. It wouldn’t matter even if the four of us could 
stay together, but a man’s helpless when his hostess 
practically insists on keeping him to herself. All we 
can do is exchange looks, but it’s marvelous how 
much better we seem to know each other even that 
way. Sharing a joke is as good as a secret for pro- 
moting intimacy, isn’t it ? 

But it does seem wasteful to spend a glorious sunny 
afternoon listening to Dr. Philip discoursing on 
microbes and chemistry. At least I think that’s 
what it’s about, I only listen with one ear ; most of 
the time I’m wondering what Bob and Dolly are 
saying to each other. But it doesn’t matter, as long 
as I give him an occasional smile he goes on. He’s 
queer in some ways ; if he’s making love to me, and 
circumstances do seem to point that way, he’s got 
the quaintest method I ever struck. Still, I remem- 
ber Gordon once said a courtship could even consist 
in psychological discussions and considerations on 
the improvement of the species ; it depended on the 
courters. 

I guess Dr. Philip’s like that : he never even 
touches my hand if I let it lie on the sand beside his. 
I never met a man before who didn’t put his over it. 
The first time I did it really was accident, it only 
struck me when he didn’t seize it, so several times 
since I have done it on purpose to try him, and he 
never does. He must be very proper. Sometimes I 
feel a most wicked desire instead of shaking hands 
good-night, to put up my face and kiss him, just be- 


224 


TIME DAY 


cause he has never tried to kiss me. I try to picture 
to myself how he would take it. Fve worked out six 
different attitudes already, and each one gives me 
more shivers than the one before. 

But why shouldn’t I, anyway ? Wouldn’t life be 
surprising, at times, if we all dared follow our im- 
pulses ? 


CHAPTER XXX 


THE PRICE OF LOVE 

My dear great-grandchildren, thank goodness I 
have you to let off to, or I should die of suppressed 
laughter ; things down here are getting too scream- 
ing for words. Dolly is becoming a perfect police- 
man ; you'd think she was engaged to Bob, the way 
she guards him ; he has to laugh himself at times, 
although he’s behaving beautifully, I think : he 
doesn’t say more about her to me than he can help. 
We really understand each other, though, without 
explaining, words aren’t necessary for every situa- 
tion, are they? A look does for us. We neither 
of us say crudely that Dolly is jealous of me, but we 
both know it, and we both know the other knows it, 
and it’s making for fun anyway. She’s frightfully 
sniffy with me, but Mrs. Lawrance is a dear, so that 
evens it up. 

The other night she, uninvited, accompanied us 
into the bathroom when we went to develop some 
photos Bob had taken in the morning ; she won’t 
leave us alone for a minute. She was like a spider 
— all eyes ; she kept between us the whole time and 
helped him whenever anything had to be held or 
mixed, she wouldn’t let me do a fragment, which was 
just as well, for I always drop things ; in fact I broke 


226 


TIME DAY 


up the meeting, in the end, by sitting on the 
board over the bath and upsetting the glasses of 
chemicals into it. Dolly scolded me quite rudely, 
but Bob was so nice about it he made her madder 
than ever. 

Served her right I 

And the night after she was funnier still. Lottie 
told me about it. I was feeling rather out of sorts 
and went to bed directly after tea. Dolly didn’t 
know this, as she had gone out with Dave. When 
they came back every one was in the lounge except 
Bob and me. I don’t know where Bob was. Dolly 
looked round with a dark frown and asked abruptly : 

“ Where’s Thyme ? ” 

“ She’s got a headache,” Lottie replied, “ and said 
she was going to bed. Do you want her ? ” 

“Oh, no, that’s all right,” Dolly answered gra- 
ciously. Then it suddenly seemed to occur to her I 
might have climbed out of the window, headache and 
all, and gone to meet him, so she came across to 
my room to make sure I really was in bed. I could 
have murdered her, for I was asleep, and she made 
my head worse again. 

Isn’t she mad? Bob said she was when I told 
him. 

“ That is the most charitable interpretation,” I 
agreed. 

He looked at me sharply for a minute, but I’m 
sure my placid smile baffled him, for he laughed 
again, and said : 

“ You can be a little cat if you like, you know.” 


THE PRICE OF LOVE 


227 

** All women can,” I retorted, ** when they’re suf- 
ficiently annoyed.” 

A gleam of triumph lit his eyes. ‘‘ Then you were 
annoyed ? ” he queried. 

I pretended not to understand. “ Why, yes,” I 
said. “ It’s rather absurd of Dolly to take it for 
granted I value — certain things — as much as she 
seems to.” 

He looked so crestfallen I had to be a little nice to 
him. 

Not that we get many opportunities of being nice 
to each other, but we make the most of those we do 
get, and, much as she’d like to, Dolly can’t sit in his 
pocket all day and night ; we get an occasional five 
minutes or half-hour. We generally contrive to meet 
a while before dinner. Dinner’s at half-past six, and, 
as a rule, about six we girls go to our rooms and tidy 
up a bit : it takes Dolly a long while, for her hair is 
the straight wispy sort that gets untidy in the wind, 
and only looks nice when it’s waved and carefully 
done, and with a net on it. But mine is curly, and I 
can twist it up in no time, and it doesn’t take long 
to get into another frock if you want to be quick, so 
I generally slip out, and Bob and I have a little talk 
on the window-seat before the others appear, or else 
up on the roof. 

Dolly doesn’t know, for Lottie, who shares my 
room, has tumbled to affairs, I think, and helps me 
all she can. She confided to me last night that she 
and Dave are going to announce their engagement 
in a week or two. She is so much nicer than I 


228 


TIME O' DAY 


thought she was; love improves some girls im- 
mensely, besides there’s nothing like living in the 
house with any one, let alone sleeping in the same 
room with her, for finding out whether she’s all she’s 
cracked up to be. You get sort of confidential, sit- 
ting about in your nightgowns brushing your hair, 
and you tell each other all sorts of things you wonder 
after why you did. 

Talking of love, we had an argument about it last 
night, all of us ; it was great fun, even Mrs. Lawrance 
joined in. We were all sitting round the fire, the 
nights you know are simply freezing, and there is a 
huge open fireplace in which we burn huge logs, and 
it’s lovely and cozy, and little sparks hop out sud- 
denly as if they wanted to join the party. Dolly got 
mad though, for when Dr. Philip took the chair next 
mine Bob said there wasn’t room for another chair in 
the circle and sat himself down on the hearth-rug at 
my feet. She glared at me all night, even slow old 
Dave noticed it ; he said to me to-day with a chuckle : 

** 1 say, Thyme, Dolly never took her eyes off you 
last night ; what have you done to her ? ” 

Her unblinking stare made me feel so wicked that 
I told Bob he might lean up against my knee if his 
back got tired, and then, because Dolly scowled more 
than ever, I ran my fingers through his hair as it 
was so temptingly in reach, and made it all stand up 
in points and little horns ; everybody laughed, they 
knew it was only fun, except her ladyship. We were 
sitting in the firelight practically, for the lamp at the 
back was very low, and then Dave wickedly stole my 


THE PRICE OF LOVE 


229 


hairpins, and, as Td only twisted my hair up that 
night in an awful hurry, it tumbled down, and every 
one said how lovely it was and asked me not to put 
it up again, at least the men did, but I would have, 
of course, only Mrs. Lawrance said so sweetly : 

“ Leave it down, dear, if they want you to, it looks 
so pretty, and it’s not so very long ago I can re- 
member that was your usual way of wearing it.” 

“ Four years ago,” I said with dignity. 

And everybody laughed. 

Bob told me it looked like spun shadow, with the 
flames dancing on it. Compliments are funny 
things, the way some please you and some don’t, 
aren’t they ? Gordon thinks women don’t like them, 
he says they are an insult to a woman’s intelligence. 
But I think there are compliments and compliments. 
Nobody likes blatant, bold lies. They are cheek 
when you know they couldn’t possibly be true ; you 
wonder what sort of fool you are taken for. The 
best are those that just dance on untruth’s precipice. 

For instance, if Bob had told me I had a pretty 
nose I should have scorned his unflattering opinion 
of my credulity, because it’s very nearly a snub, it 
just misses it ; if he had praised my mouth I should 
have been unmoved, because people always have 
said nice things about it, but, though my hair is 
glossy and thick and curly, most people don’t com- 
ment on it, because I have better points, but I’m 
secretly rather proud of it, so it was clever of Bob to 
admire it. 

I think people who flatter you cleverly are nearly. 


230 


TIME DAY 


always nice, because it takes a fairly unselfish person 
to be a good flatterer ; he has to find out the vulner- 
able point of your vanity, and that requires tact, and 
tact is just a sort of unselfishness, and, of course, un- 
selfishness is about the cleverest form of selfishness 
there is, since you get admired for it. No one does 
anything without a reason, even if it’s subconscious, 
and people are unselfish and give up something they 
want to get something they want more. Sometimes 
the thing they want more is just the glowy feeling 
of having been unselfish, but they must really like 
that better than the other thing or they wouldn’t do 
it. We can only do what we want to do, that’s 
plain sense. Besides it’s psychology, too, I remem- 
ber Gordon telling me. 

Lottie told me to-day that Dolly told her she 
thought it perfectly disgusting for a girl to sit there, 
with her hair hanging about her shoulders, in front 
of three strange men. She's only jealous because 
she hasn’t pretty hair herself. 

And then we got on to love. They went for me 
because I said it could be bought. I reckon it can 
too. What started it was a novel every one is talk- 
ing about just now, where some millionaire gets a 
girl to marry him, believing him poor, and who says 
now he has all he wants in life. He had always 
bought everything he desired up till then, but love 
was the one thing he couldn’t buy. I said you 
could. Love can be bought, of course ; like every- 
thing else of value it has its price : some people just 
don’t understand the art of shopping. Different 


THE PRICE OF LOVE 23I 

men are accessible to different bribes, that's the first 
lesson of a diplomat, and all women are natural 
diplomats, or ought to be, poor dears ; there’s as 
much tact needed to manage one man as would sup- 
ply a British embassy for five years. 

You can buy some sorts of love with presents ; lots 
of children love their parents because they have al- 
ways been good to them and given them things. Or 
you buy love, using your strength or beauty as a 
lure, for your strength or beauty is not the real 
you that is loved. Of course, when I said that they 
protested I wasn’t talking about real love, but, as I 
said, who’s going to define love anyway ? It seems 
to me every one, from Shakespeare up (what a 
heresy to say from Shakespeare up) has tried his 
hand, and the world’s not much wiser. It’s one of 
those things you’ve got to have (like measles) to un- 
derstand. Love is wisdom, not knowledge. I’ve 
heard it said, “ Wisdom is what we’ve got, knowl- 
edge is what the other fellow’s got,” but I think my- 
self knowledge is common hearsay property, wisdom 
is the special little dose of knowledge you’ve tried 
for yourself and found all right. Really, for all 
life there’s no motto like the one that used to hang 
in the store up-country when I was little, “ Taste 
and try before you buy.” 

The commonest way to buy love is with love ; the 
other person is flattered into loving you in return. 
After all I suppose love’s like life, just a bank where 
you can only take out what you put in, though in 
some cases, if you’re lucky, you get interest. Gordon 


232 


TIME O’ DAY 


says it’s a mirror where you see reflected in a vague 
glory your own ideas about the person instead of 
the person, so it all comes back to the simple point 
that loving any one is loving something about your- 
self, and self-love, so Gordon says, is the very core 
of our being. That's why most people find love so 
nice ; it’s delightful to be of good conceit with one- 
self. 

But they went for me like anything when I said 
that and quoted a mother’s unselfish devotion at me. 
But Gordon says that is the most selfish of all ; she 
adores her child because it is hers, her very, very 
own, it’s just worship by proxy of herself. Some- 
times I think he’s right. I never met any one that 
loved unselfishly ; anyway, men always want to own 
a woman when they love her, and women are nearly 
as bad. 

But they fairly howled me down, and when we 
were separating for the night Bob said to me under 
cover of the noise : 

“ Well, little cynic, what’s the price of your love ? ” 

I tilted my head sideways and looked at him un- 
der my lashes. ** Perhaps it’s not on the market,” 
I suggested. 

“ According to your theory it must be, when the 
right price comes,” he retorted. ** Are you sure no 
one’s got an option on it already ? ” 

“ What’s it to do with you ? ” I said, and tried to 
draw my hand away, but he held it tightly and re- 
peated his question, his red-brown eyes seemed to 
stare right down through me. 


THE PRICE OF LOVE 


233 


** Has any one?” he said again. 

And do you know, G.G.C., I had to answer ** No ” ; 
it was for all the world as if he had drawn my will 
away. I was mad with myself after. But, oh ! 
G.G.C., he loves me, Fm sure of it, a little bit ; but 
then I dare say he loves other girls too. It’s funny 
how we always want to be the only one, isn’t it ? 


CHAPTER XXXI 


ON THE VERANDA 

My dears, I haven't had a minute to write down 
what's been happening till now ; it's all been happen- 
ing so quickly. If Dolly only knew the half of it 
she’d have fits. Bob has gone back to Sydney, he 
couldn't be spared any longer from the office, he 
said, but the rest of us are not going back for an- 
other couple of days. The last bit of his stay was 
most exciting. Dolly got worse and worse, she ab- 
solutely wouldn't speak to me at the end, not if we 
were alone ; she would in front of the others if she 
had to. Alone if I spoke to her she simply looked 
at me and made no reply. Wasn't it awful, because 
she is my hostess, and however wild she is with me, 
sheer hospitality ought to prevent her insulting a 
guest in her own house. But Dolly is a queer crea- 
ture, she has been abominably spoiled, her family 
think her perfect, and she has a high temper, and 
between the two she doesn’t seem to act by ordinary 
codes of decency. 

I felt awful about it, but I didn't see what I could 
do. I thought at first I’d go straight home, but I 
couldn't think of a decent excuse without explaining 
the situation to Mrs. Lawrance, her own mother — 
I couldn’t, could I? I'd have written home and 
asked them to telegraph for me, but that would have 


ON THE VERANDA 


235 

meant endless explanations afterward, so I decided 
to try and put up with it. But you can guess how 
strained things have been with Dolly^s lowering face 
presiding over everything. But she’s an awful fool 
anyway ; does she suppose she can win a man by 
getting sulky ? She’s done for herself, too, as far as 
he’s concerned ; he’s wild with her for the way she 
has treated me. I didn’t mean to tell him about 
it, but I suppose I looked upset when I found she 
wouldn’t speak. I know I felt it, and Bob insisted 
there must be something wrong, though I vowed 
there wasn’t, and he coaxed me till he got the story 
out of me. He was angry. 

The girl’s a perfect fool,” he declared with more 
vehemence than I knew he could use ; “ what does 
she mean by it anyway? She’s got no right to 
resent our being friends,” when I suggested that was 
all it was. (And I think it was really noble of me, 
don’t you, to pretend she only disliked being ousted 
from her place of chief pal after the way she had 
behaved ?) ‘‘ I’ve never been a special friend of hers, 
at least not very special. I used to think her a jolly 
sort — but Great Scott ! you poor little girl,” he added 
so nicely, but never mind. I’ll be gone to-morrow 
and your troubles will be over.” 

But Dolly hadn’t finished with us, oh, dear no. 
We went for a walk on the beach that afternoon, all 
of us, and Bob tried to get next to me lots of times, 
partly for mischief, but do you think Dolly would let 
him ? She shepherded him like a kelpie cutting out 
the flock. I suppose it was horrid of us, but every 


TIME O’ DAY 


236 

time we caught each other’s amused smile we couldn’t 
help it. It’s such tiny things she’s so absurd in, you 
know. I’ll tell you one for example. While we were 
walking my shoe came untied, and of course I stooped 
to tie it up myself. I always do ; I think it’s absurd 
to make men get down on their knees to do it unless 
they want to particularly, and Bob apparently did, 
for he was on one knee and had it tied before I 
could stoop. And not a hundred yards from there 
Dolly gets hers untied, and pokes her foot out for 
him to tie it up, so of course down he has to go 
again. It was fairly ludicrous. I never guessed 
Dolly was such a fool ; her temper seems to have 
blinded her to every standard of common sense, for 
even old Dave smiled. 

But the thing that made us both really furious was 
the afternoon he went away, at least he didn’t go till 
after dinner. Just before dinner, as usual, I slipped 
away out of my room and met him, and as it was a 
lovely evening we decided to go on the roof. 

Dolly must have seen me come out of my door, 
but you’ll never guess the rotten thing she did. Bob 
and I were leaning over the rail looking at the sea, 
it was simply beautiful, heaving lazily to and fro like 
a child lolling on the sand, and the last pink of the 
sunset shimmering across it, and we talked a lot of 
nonsense. But it was a funny thing, at times he 
seemed almost pettish, as if I had vexed him, and 
then he would be nicer than ever again. I forget 
exactly what I was saying one minute, but he said 
quite resentfully : 


ON THE VERANDA 


237 

“You seem to know a jolly lot of men. I believe 
you know more than I do.” 

I took it as a joke, so I said for fun, “ Ah, but per- 
haps they’d rather know me than you.” 

Bob laughed too, but rather curtly. “ I should 
think so.” Then he added in the same half-humor- 
ous, half-vexed way, “ How much of your reputation 
is deserved, I wonder?” 

“ What do you mean ? ” I said. 

“Well,” he laughed, but a little horridly, “Pve told 
you before I’d heard about you before I met you.” 

“What had you heard?” I temporized. 

“That — well, that you had damaged more than 
one man’s heart.” 

“ It’s kind of you not to call me a callous flirt out- 
right,” I said. I tried to speak coldly, but my voice 
quivered a wee bit. I did feel hurt, I never deliber- 
ately lead a man on ; I do not. I think it’s hateful 
and low, and to have Bob, of all people, insinuate it 
about me — I had to swallow quite hard, but he 
wasn’t looking at me so he didn’t see how damp 
my eyes felt. 

But he didn’t speak for such a long time I couldn’t 
resist saying in the end, “ Why should it interest you 
anyway ? ” 

“It might,” he answered deliberately; then he 
turned and looked me straight in the eyes, and after 
a second I felt so quivery I had to look at the floor, 
and then he took me by the shoulders, gently and 
yet savagely, if you can understand, and his voice 
was quite harsh as he said ; 


TIME O’ DAY 


238 

“ Are these drooped eyelids part of the game, you 
lovely little siren ? ” 

I didn’t answer anything, and then he said in the 
softest coaxingest way in the world : 

‘‘ Daytime,” and drew me toward him, and sud- 
denly, as if he had been shot, his hands dropped and 
he started fumbling in the pocket of his coat. 

“Where did I put those cigarettes now?” he said, 
and as I stared at him the door cautiously drew an 
inch apart and Dolly’s and Dave’s faces peeped at us. 

Oh, there you are,” said Dolly lightly. “ Dave 
and I came up for a breath of air before dinner. 
Isn’t it lovely here ? ” and they both stepped out on 
the roof. Then I understood his lightning change, 
he must have awfully quick hearing, I hadn’t caught 
a sound, and when I understood I felt furious, abso- 
lutely. Wasn’t it a rotten cad’s trick to spy on us 
like that ? I felt my eyes just scorching with wrath, 
and when I looked at Bob his were too. As for 
Dave, he looked supremely uncomfortable, only 
Dolly chattered blandly on. But what fools we 
should have looked if Bob had not heard her in 
time. How could she be such a cad, in her own 
house too? That’s what surprises me at her be- 
havior; if I wasn’t her guest it would be — well, if 
not excusable at least less inexcusable. 

Poor Dave detained me for a minute when the 
dinner gong sounded and blundered out an apology. 

“ I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Thyme,” he said 
uncomfortably. “ I never knew Dolly was going to 
play a trick like that. I do beg your pardon.” 


ON THE VERANDA 


239 


The poor old thing was horribly upset, but I was 
too vexed and ruffled myself to reassure him much, 
though I tried to. And, to crown it all, Dolly had 
the impudence to say sweetly as we were coming 
down-stairs : 

“ I say, you two look awfully glum ; did Dave and 
I interrupt anything very touching ? '' 

I should like to smack her face. 

Bob looked wrathful just a little all through din- 
ner, and he had to go back just after. He went 
down to the motor-shed at the back to get his car, 
and while he was away they asked Dave to sing and 
Dolly had to play for him, she does accompany 
beautifully : the rest went inside to hear, but Lottie 
and I stayed on the veranda and then Bob came 
round the front and up the steps. 

‘‘ I wanted to see you,” he said abruptly, ‘‘ I’m 
awfully sorry.” 

“Oh, it doesn’t matter now,” I said. Lottie like a 
perfect angel had unobtrusively melted away, she 
strolled down to the gate and admired the car, so we 
were alone. Dolly was still playing for Dave. He 
glanced round quickly, and then said : 

“ You’re a brick not to be wild with me, I nearly 

put you in a rotten position, but I never dreamed ” 

he hesitated, I suppose he didn’t like to slang an 
absent girl. 

“ Never mind,” I answered, and then we said 
nothing for a minute, we just stood there and looked 
at each other. Once a bicycle shot past with its 
lamp like the light on a witch’s forehead, and over- 


240 


TIME O’ DAY 


head the stars hung low and seemed to be trying to 
whisper, “ Oh, get it over ! We’re bored after such 
centuries of it,’* and in the paddocks at the side papa 
bullfrog was holding a singing class. It sounded 
as if the earth and branches about us were whisper- 
ing, rustling, running ; tiny little feet, millions of 
them, pattered like dry leaves round us — the earth 
was talking and we listened and 

“ I hate to go,” he said still in the same abrupt 
way, ** and leave you here with Pip.” 

‘‘ Why ? ” I said, staring at my fingers on the rail. 

“ He’s in love with you and you might ” 

** Don’t be so absurd,” I said. 

“ I suppose it is absurd,” he answered cuttingly. 
“ I suppose you are far too well-balanced and calcu- 
lating to let yourself descend to falling honestly in 
love.” 

I just looked at him. I felt as if he had slapped 
me, and in spite of myself a big tear simply pushed 
its way through my eye and fell flop on my hand ; 
and then Bob did a lightning change, like a Tivoli 
star: he suddenly grabbed me to him so hard I 
couldn’t breathe, and kissed me about forty million 
times in one, and said : 

“ I ought to be shot, oh ! you darling.” 

And then of course the music stopped and Dolly 
appeared. I had to shake hands good-bye with him 
after that in front of the rest. Oh ! G.G.C., isn’t life 
absurd ? 

But he loves me. I know he does. Oh, I do feel 
so happy. I’ve been beaming all day, like the little 


ON THE VERANDA 


241 


candle we used to sing about in Sunday-school. 
Well, I suppose my fate is settled. I wonder if I 
have found your great-grandpapa, my dears ? Per- 
haps he’s only flirting, after all, but I do think he 
meant it on the veranda ; still, he hasn’t asked me 
to marry him yet, has he ? I expect I will when he 
does — I suppose I ought to say if he does. I wish 
he would write, it seems years since he went, and it’s 
only one day. I’m dying to get home and see him 
again, life is frightfully exciting, there’s always some- 
thing new. 

And there’s lots of things too, big things I haven’t 
had yet. There’s marriage ahead of me, and even 
after motherhood there’s still death. Gordon says 
Nature arranges her crises well, and leads up to the 
— what do dramatists call it ? — the climax. She’s a 
good playwright. Like playwrights she sometimes 
fails too, and ends up with an anti-climax. When a 
person gets sick to death and works all his relations 
and friends into a fever over his approaching demise, 
and suddenly recovers, from an artistic standpoint 
it’s an awful anti-climax, at least so Gordon says, 
but then he’s a callous wretch. 

I had a post-card from him to-day to hope I’m en- 
joying myself. I feel quite swell-headed, it’s a most 
unheard of attention from Gordon. 

I wonder if Bob does want to marry me. Mother 
would be pleased. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


FLOWER OF THE PEA 

Home again, and everything is dull and disgust- 
ing. Bob is away in Melbourne again. He went 
the day we got home, and I didn’t see him. He rang 
up, so the family said, just before his train left, to see 
if I had arrived, but of course I hadn’t. The family 
seems to approve. Mother told me he was a very 
nice young fellow ; that’s because he has nearly four 
hundred a year. It’s not wealth, but it’s not too bad 
to start on, is it ? I expect we’ll have — I mean he’ll 
have — lots more later on; his people are awfully 
rich, or so every one says. 

It was so nice to see old Gordon again, he came 
round my first night home, when I was feeling mel- 
ancholy about Bob, and we had a lovely yarn. Of 
course he got most of it out of me too, it’s absurd the 
way I tell Gordon everything, but I don’t seem able 
to help it, and yet he seldom asks questions, it’s as if 
he willed me to volunteer the information he wants. 
But I was awfully curious to know what he thought 
of Bob, so after I’d told him a bit about how nice it 
all was, except Dolly, I said casually : 

Do you think Mr. Gale is a flirt, Gordon ? ” 

Gordon grunted. 


FLOWER OF THE PEA 


243 


Do you?” I said, feeling rather put out; “well, 

I don’t see how you can know ; you’re not a girl, he 
couldn’t flirt with you.” 

“ Good lord,” said the disgusted Gordon, “ it 
doesn’t need personal experience to tell. Individual- 
ism comes out in everything, in a man’s walk, his 
gestures, the cut of his clothes, the boots he wears, 
the tobacco he smokes, and the way he eats his food. 
I’ve watched our mutual friend a bit more than you 
guess. He’s the flirt in its highest development. 
He can no more help it than breathing. He flirts 
with girls, he flirts with his tucker-— I’ve never seen 
him eat a square meal yet, he patronizes the light 
side of literature ; he’s a dab at small talk — flirts, as 
it were, with conversation. Of course he’s a flirt. 
Why ? Been flirting with you ? ” 

“ Do mind your own business,” I said crossly. 

“ Right,” Gordon replied, and equably went on 
smoking. 

“ I wonder if he was,” I mused aloud. 

“ Then it was he,” Gordon commented. “ I won- 
dered which of them it was.” 

“Why should it be either?” I demanded pettishly. 

Gordon almost sniffed. ” It wouldn’t be you to go 
away for a week with two men without at least one 
of ’em falling in love with you, probably both. Do 
you”— he knocked his pipe out rather noisily— ” do 
you happen to intend to marry him ? ” 

“ He hasn’t ask me,” I replied. 

“ That’s nothing ; you can make him if you want 
him to.” 


244 time day 

“ Gordon,” I said, quite exasperated, ” stop being 
insulting.” 

“ Tm not. Don’t get on the high horse. Let me 
point out to you something most folks don’t realize, 
my dear : s the girl who really does the courthig. 
You needn’t try to look horrified, it won’t wash with 
me ; you know it as well as I do. The girl makes the 
opportunities, the man merely takes advantage of 
them. It rests with the girl every time whether he 
shall shy off or come on ; it’s her doing whether, when 
he comes, he sees her alone, or if mother will be an 
obstruction, and, if he’s slow in coming to the point, 
she will hasten matters by shying off a trifle, or doing 
a line with some one else. Why, look here ” — Gordon , 
warmed to his subject — “ only a week or so ago a chap 
I know pretty well got engaged. He’d been running 
the girl for some time, and I had been keeping my 
eye on the affair, for there’s nothing more fascinating 
to watch than a courtship — to watch philosophically 
I mean. For some weeks she had been running 
another chap mighty hard, and that’s what woke up 
my friend. He admitted it. He said to me, ‘You 
know Bee and I have been going pretty strong, but 
I wouldn’t have got actually engaged yet a bit if it 
hadn’t been for So-and-so ; he was making the pace 
too hot, so I had to or chance losing her.’ And now 
So-and-so is on the mat and looking pretty sick on it. 
But girls have no conscience.” 

“ Nonsense, Gordon,” I said, though my own gave 
me a twinge. “ We’re not as cold-blooded as you 
make out, nor as shameless.” 


FLOWER OF THE PEA 245 

“ My dear kid,” Gordon replied with irritating 
calm, “ I never accused you of either. A girl is most 
of the time quite unaware of her tactics, she does 
what she does instinctively, she follows nature. Both 
girl and man are nature’s instruments acting blindly. 
Why should we scorn either ? I couldn’t speak dis- 
respectfully of nature’s work if I tried. George I ” — 
he laughed, and his eyes twinkled behind their glasses 
— “ haven’t I been through the mill ? ” 

I felt suddenly bad-tempered. ‘‘Have you ever 
been in love, Gordon ? ” I asked. 

“ Ever ? ” He laughed again, and I felt crosser 
than ever. “ Scores of times. You get some eye- 
openers by it. I’ll never forget one. I was lost in 
admiration at the consummate art with which she 
used to dispose of mother and the other chap and 
give me a chance to practice my wiles upon her.” 

“She must have been a brazen piece,” I said 
viciously. 

“ She wasn’t,” Gordon calmly contradicted ; “ she 
was a modest and extremely nice girl.” 

I sat and chewed my little finger thoughtfully. 
Somehow it had never occurred to me before Gordon 
might have all sorts of secrets in his life. He sud- 
denly seemed quite different and interesting. 

“ Gordon,” I said coaxingly, “ have you ever been 
really in love, novel kind of love, I mean ? ” 

Gordon smoked on a bit without answering, then 
he said slowly : “ I’m not sure. If the other half of 
me would leave me alone I might have been married 
a dozen times over. I suppose ” — he shrugged his 


TIME O’ DAY 


246 

shoulders — “ I ought to be grateful to my other half. 
In any affair it always sits back with a cynical smile 
and points out the manoeuvres to me, it’s disconcert- 
ing to say the least. Sometimes I wonder whether I 
really do love,” he went on musingly, “ or if it is only 
that I love differently from the average man, with 
my eyes open instead of shut. Of thinking the girl 
I love anything fundamentally different from other 
girls, as some fellows seem to, or of living in an 
exalted fervor of happiness that gilds everything, I 
am not capable, or I never have been anyway. I 
think I love even at the beginning more in the 
tolerant shrewd way a man might love his wife after 
six or seven years, seeing her good and bad points, 
weighing for and against and reckoning the ‘ for ’ 
predominates. I can’t divorce my heart from my 
head, you see, or I sometimes wonder if it is only 
that I have more self-control than most men and it 
extends even to my feelings. And yet, you know ” 
— he smiled at me through the smoke — “ they take 
their revenge by giving me a deuce of a time oc- 
casionally.” 

“ Tell me the worst time,” I said, getting a tiny 
bit closer on the sofa. He leaned back on the cush- 
ions and shut his eyes, and round the corner of the 
drawing-room (the big Chesterfield where we were 
is in a kind of recess), Marje was playing something 
soft to Petermac. 

“ I think,” he said slowly, ” the worst was Flower 
of the Pea,” 

” What a name,” I said. ” Who was she ? ” 


FLOWER OF THE PEA 


H7 


** An island girl ; it wasn't her real name. Her 
own beat me, so that’s what I called her. Don't 
you know that little Venetian song, Thyme : 

“ ‘ Flower of the pea, 

We were but children and we loved each other. 

What heart is thine that thou canst go from me? ’ ” 

“ A native I ” I said incredulously. ** Gordon, you 
couldn’t loz/e a native girl.” 

” Couldn’t I?” Gordon said dreamily with shut 
eyes. ” It was fierce. She spoke the prettiest 
broken English you ever heard. I’ve never heard 
any one say my name as sweetly as she did.” 

Did she call you Gordon ? ” I asked. 

Gordon smiled retrospectively. “She tried to. 
But she intimated it was a barbarous syllable. I 
couldn’t pronounce hers either, so we were even. 
She gave me a pet name too in the end.” 

“ Oh, did she,” I said, feeling simply savage, I 
don’t know why. “Was she pretty?” I asked at 
length. 

“ Very, for an island girl, and — yes, even for not 
an island girl. She had lovely brown eyes and hair 
like yours, only better, and a skin just the softest 
golden kind of shadow effect between thick trees at 
midday.” 

“ Gracious,” I said when I had recovered my 
breath after Gordon’s outburst. “Well, what hap- 
pened? Tell me about her.” 

“Not for something,” Gordon replied without 
moving ; “ never tell one woman about another.” 


248 


TIME DAY 


“ Good heavens/’ I said disdainfully, ** one would 
think I was in love with you the way you talk.” 

Even that didn’t move him. “Why shouldn’t 
you be?” he returned equably. “You wouldn’t be 
the first.” 

I simply gasped at his cheek and then remembered 
who it was talking and laughed instead. 

But I would like to find out more about his Flower 
of the Pea. Fancy saying she had nicer hair than 
mine. Really it’s exasperating of Gordon not to 
care about me that way if he can other women. Of 
course I don’t want him to love me ; it would spoil 
everything ; but it is humiliating to think other 
women can make him fall in love and I can’t. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


LETTERS 

I HAD a nice batch of letters to-day, one from Bob 
and from each of the kids and Max too. I thought 
Bob was never going to write, but he says he has 
been frightfully busy, as usual. I got quite worked 
up before it arrived. Isn^t it absurd the silly way 
your heart waits for the postman when youVe ex- 
pecting word from the nicest person in the world. 
(Bob is adorable, you know, G.G.C. Fm convinced 
of that since his letter ; you must say it Gordon’s 
French way too, with the accent on the “ <2ble,” and 
then it sounds like a big beautiful sigh of satisfaction.) 

But it is ridiculous the way it throbs until the 
letters go wop on the floor, and how it goes lower 
and lower and heavier as you pick them up and find 
the letter isn’t there, till it seems to weigh a ton. 
And then at last when it is there, you feel as if you 
had received a ten-pound note. My dears, have you 
ever felt as foolish as that ? I don’t think even I’ve 
been quite so bad before ; if there are any prizes 
offered for champion fools I think your great- 
grandma had better apply. 

But it was such a sweet letter. I’ll read you a bit. 
It doesn’t commit him to anything, you know, but 
I’m sure he cares. He says : 

“ I hope you kept your promise and took me for 


250 


TIME DAY 


that walk on the beach after I left. It was moon- 
light, wasn’t it ? I could see it all. Ah 1 if I could 
only have been with you in the flesh as well as the 
spirit. I sat in the office thinking about you when 
eight o’clock came round. I didn’t do any work for 
a bit. 

“ I enjoyed it tremendously ; there’s no need to 
tell you that, is there ? It’s as sure as algebra. 
Suppose we work it out by that. Call you x and 
me y. Had I been there x would have equaled 
— what ? But I can tell you y — x = very complete 
loneliness and regret at times. So let us hope the 
signs will soon change. Or else call y my regard 
for you, and x your regard for me — if I could only 
hope to make x equal y / 

“ No, you are quite wrong in the surmise you con- 
veyed to me through Pip. I didn’t come for the 
races. I am really on sober business. I haven’t 
been once near the course. As a matter of fact I’m 
getting sick of races. I’ve been in one (the human 
race) ever since I was born, and I don’t seem to be 
a favorite ; in fact my betting is about 100 to i. 
But I hope to get along better in the next heat.” 

I wonder what he means by the next heat. I 
asked Gordon, and he snorted and said : 

‘‘Probably the married handicap, open to all 
comers, no training required.” 

I wonder if he did mean that. Isn’t it exciting, 
G.G.C. ? I wish he’d come back. 

Dolly is being horrid still. She came round 
yesterday to borrow a skirt pattern, or a jampot, or 


LETTERS 


25 


something, so that she could tell me Bob had sent 
them seats for Oscar Asche just before he left for 
Melbourne. What a fool she is. Indiscretion’s 
about the most foolish thing a girl can indulge in. 
Every fellow likes to enjoy the company of another 
girl or two besides the extra special, but he does balk 
when the other or two cook his hash with the E.S., 
and that is what Dolly does every time. Some day 
she’ll get hurt. 

She enlarged a while on what a nice boy Bob is, 
and how great a friend of the family, and how much 
they all like him, and so on. 

‘‘Why, yes,” I agreed, “ he told me how fond he 
was of you all. He thinks there’s no one like Dr. 
Philip ; we both agreed he was a brother one would 
be rather proud of.” 

This damped Miss Dolly a trifle, but she pursued 
bravely how nice it had been of him to send her the 
seats ; she didn’t know why he should have thought 
of it, as he was rushing away in a hurry too. 

“ Oh, you were jolly good to him down at Thir- 
roul,” I answered with a simple air of solving the 
riddle, “ and when a boy hasn’t a home of his own 
that’s the only way he can pay back invitations.” 

She went quite pink with wrath, but she couldn’t 
think of any retort suitable to the occasion. Of 
course it was cattish of me, G.G.C., I admit it, but I 
think you must admit too she deserved it. It was 
accumulated vengeance for Thirroul. I’d do it 
again ; I haven’t paid off my score with her yet. I 
suppose real forgiveness is a virtue, but Gordon says 


252 


TIME O' DAY 


what often passes as forgiveness is just a craven 
spirit, an inability to rise to the heights of revenge. 
Gordon says hate, like love, is on a pinnacle ; like 
water in a bent tube, they find their level. Real for- 
giveness means absolute forgetfulness, and there’s 
hardly merit in forgetfulness, is there ? 

I can never pick out just where Gordon goes 
wrong, even when I feel he must be. 

The kids’ letters were awfully funny too. Vane 
got on to the subject of Gordon again ; he really is 
more than ridiculous. What do you think he did — 
offered to help if he could. I haven’t laughed so for 
years ; I reckon it was rich. Of course it was fright- 
fully nice of him, and I forgot I am not to call him a 
kid any longer ; he remonstrated last letter, and said 
he thought he was past that now. He evidently 
thinks love has aged him. He seems very satisfied 
the way things are going with Ada, and they like 
the station so far. 

But I really think Ada is more fond of him than 
she cares to admit ; she is getting a much nicer, softer 
look, and she doesn’t criticize me nearly as brutally 
as she used. I hope he will stick to her if she does 
care, for she’s the sort would take it hard to be deserted 
in her first affair. It would probably prove her last. 
But things seem all right so far, Vane still rhapso- 
dizes about her to me, she’s still the most bonza girl 
that ever was. 

But Max’s letter has upset me horribly. It really 
has, and Marje is so cross with me too. Of course I 
know I’m written down coquette, and coquettes aren’t 


LETTERS 


253 

supposed to have any feelings or remorse, but, as per- 
haps you know yourselves, great-grandchildren, lots 
have. Every type is true only to general character- 
istics ; it is made up of individuals. The only thing 
in the world I find most desirable is love. I want 
to be loved, I’ve always wanted it. It’s a big sunny 
old world ; I’ve always smiled at it, and it’s smiled 
back gaily enough at me. I love many people ; that 
they should be chiefly men is just because men seem 
to like me better than girls : and I feel a disposition 
to love any one who loves me — for sheer gratitude 
if you like. Wasn’t it Byron who said the heart must 
leap kindly back to kindness ? 

But on her honor, G.G.C., your great-grandma has 
never deliberately led a man on to break his heart. 
I like them to like me in moderation ; extremes I 
simply detest. But, oh dear ! life is very complicated 
for a girl who wants to have fun and yet be square. 
I never thought Max would go on liking me long 
after he went away. It is a nuisance ; it worries me 
at times dreadfully. His letters are getting worse in 
spots. I won’t let them get sentimental, but he 
makes them confidential, which is worse. He tells 
me all about his money affairs and his work, and 
wishes he could get married at once. So do I, with 
all my heart, as long as it wasn’t to me. 

And now he’s thrown up his job, because I said 
once, in fun, that a girl was a fool to marry a com- 
mercial traveler, as he was never at home. Oh, 
dear, Marje was so angry with me — as if I’d dreamed 
he’d take it like that. I always hand on his letters 


254 


TIME DAY 


to her when Fve read them, you know ; she always 
liked Max and she likes to hear about him. If he ' 
comes back to Sydney I’ll see if I can’t graft a new I 
love on him before he has quite had time to realize i 
affairs. 

But aren’t you sorry for me a little, G.G.C. ? Life is 
so worrying. I don’t know what to do. I think I’ll ask 
Gordon, only it makes it awkward being his brother. 

I wish I could get another letter from Bob ; it 
seems a hundred years since I got this morning’s. 
And, oh, I must tell you, I did give Mr. Wymond- 
ham a lovely snub yesterday. In front of a whole 
roomful of people too. There were a lot round at 
our place, and three or four of the men were teasing 
me, with Gordon for ringleader, and somehow among 
the chaff Mr. Wymondham happened to say : 

‘‘ Ah, but she doesn’t love 7ne at all.” And like a 
gun flash, I said, with the sweetest smile in the world : 

“ Have you only just found that out ? ” 

I can’t help snubbing that man. The others 
roared with delight, but Gordon told me afterward 
I’d better be careful, or I shall get a reputation for 
wit, and it’s worse for a woman to be witty than im- 
moral. Men know how to deal with the one but not 
with the other. Men don’t as a rule like to have to 
try to understand a woman ; I expect as a rule they 
think we’re not worth the effort. 

I think I’ll go round to Maida’s, she is sure to 
soothe me ; we do understand each other and we 
never scold. I shall feel better when I’ve seen her 
and cuddled Peterjohn, the pet. I bought some per- 


LETTERS 


255 

fectly sweet embroidery to-day when I was in town 
to make him a frock. 

You know what really makes me feel a bit scary 
is, suppose Bob heard about Max ? I don't see how 
he could, but stranger things have happened. He 
would never understand, men don't, and he thinks 
me a flirt. I believe he's afraid I am only making 
fun of him, and that is why he didn't ask me to marry 
him at Thirroul. There's no one suspects people of 
flirting like another flirt. 

Anyway I'll ask Maida what she thinks. 

Oh ! I forgot, I can't. I promised to go into 
Ida's. There's something wrong there. I'm positive. 
I found her crying yesterday and she wouldn't tell 
me what it was. It must have been something 
pretty bad, for she doesn't cry, and when I worried 
her to let me sympathize she only said it was some- 
thing nasty that was threatening her. She wouldn't 
say anything further, only when I kissed her good- 
bye she added : 

Perhaps this is the last time you'll ever kiss me." 

“ Good gracious, Ida," I said, " what is the mat- 
ter ? " But she wouldn't tell me even then. 

It's rather horrid of me to think it, but I can't help 
wondering whether her husband has been making a 
fuss about Lance. I don't blame him if he has ; 
Lance really does go frightfully strong with her ; but 
I didn't think she cared enough about him to be up- 
set if he's being sent away. I rather hope he is. I 
don't think he's good for her. Though perhaps he 
isn't to blame. I suppose, if Gordon's estimate of her 


TIME DAY 


256 

is right, it would be rather hard for a man to live in 
the same house with her and not love her a bit. 
Still, when it’s his brother’s wife he ought to take a 
grip on himself, and I hope Mr. Lester has wakened 
up at last and is getting rid of him. 

Poor Ida, it’s rotten for her. I suppose she can’t 
help it if the Lord made her that way. We got on 
to the subject yesterday, and she said to me, when I 
envied the way men go mad over her : 

Don’t, Daytime ; sometimes I hate myself for it. 
It isn’t love I wake in them ; it’s just naked desire. 
Of course all love has desire in it, but the best kind 
has other things as well, only — I never get the other 
things. There’s been only one man in my life who 
seemed to find more than that in me. Perhaps if 
I’d met him first I’d have been different. He used 
to make me feel almost churchy at times, as if I 
wanted to go out and have a mental and moral 
whitewash, but I dare say even he wouldn’t have 
liked me if I had.” A wry little smile twisted her 
face. “ I wonder. Thyme.” She sat a minute with 
her chin in her hands considering and gave a tiny 
shrug. ‘‘No, I’m afraid goodness is not my line. 
I came to the conclusion years ago that it’s my bad 
points attract people. Kind of reflection, isn’t it? 
But whether the reflection’s on me or on the other 
people I’ve never satisfactorily decided.” 

There, I must stop now and run in for a few min- 
utes to cheer her up. And, oh ! I do wish I could 
get another letter from Bob to-morrow, but of course 
he wouldn’t be such a goose. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


BAD NEWS 

ISN^T it lovely to lie in bed of a morning when 
you know you ought to be up, especially when you 
sleep outside, as Ada and I do. My bedroom, and 
the big one the triplets all share, open on to a kind 
of small veranda on the side garden, and that’s 
where Ada and I sleep all the year round. You get 
so used to it you hate being inside even if it pours. 
It is a fairly sheltered spot, and we put big water- 
proof sheets over our beds in the wet weather, and 
I think it’s delicious to feel the faint spatter of rain 
on your cheeks while the rest of you is all tucked up 
nice and warm under the blankets. 

It was late when I woke up this morning. I 
looked down at Ada’s bed but it was empty, she was 
dressing. I could hear her pulling drawers open 
and dropping things, but I couldn’t move. I felt 
too deliciously lazy. The sun was lazy, like me, he 
was only beginning to reflect pink streaks in the 
west, that slowly changed to flame color and licked 
up among the mackerel-grey clouds like fire catch- 
ing hold of deal sticks. I love to watch the spar- 
rows ; there were hundreds of them, truly, hopping 
about a big banksia that grows up the posts, and I 
saw a starling or two, nasty big thieves, creeping 


TIME DAY 


258 

slyly along the ground to the orchard at the back. 
And a dear willie- wagtail had the impudence to 
come and perch for a second on the end of my bed, 
to show off his clean waistcoat and prove to me how 
beautifully he can manage his unwieldy-looking tail. 

I asked him why he wore evening clothes in the 
morning, and I suppose my question offended him, 
for he tossed his head and flew away. But I wasn’t 
allowed to enjoy my laziness for long. I never am. 
Ada’s voice sailed to me out of the depths of the 
room : 

“Thyme, get up, you lazy dog. Alice says 
Biddy wants to know where you’ve put the fish, she 
can’t find it.” Alice is our housemaid. 

“ I haven’t touched it,” I retorted drowsily. 

“You have,” Ada replied. “I saw you with it 
last night, don’t you remember, you fried yourself 
some because you were too late for dinner ? Hurry 
up. Thyme, Biddy’s waiting for it.” 

“ I don’t know where it Oh, yes, I remem- 

ber, it’s in the cellar,” I replied, now wide awake. 
“ Oh I and Alice,” I called in a thin shriek after her, 
“ tell Biddy to light the range, I want to make cake 
this morning.” 

I always like a wood-fire if I have much cake to 
do, it seems to me to taste better than gas stuff. 
Of course, as soon as I announced my intention of 
being cook, Ada suggested I should mix her up a 
cinnamon cake for her lunch next day, and Betty, in 
a tone of touching politeness, requested an orange 
one to take to school. It’s so funny that is the only 


BAD NEWS 


^59 

hold I have over Betty ; she adores cake, especially 
home-made, and if she offends me very seriously I 
won’t make any of the kinds she likes. I suppose I 
ought to be thankful I have any way of appealing 
to her at all, even if it is through her stomach. 

But I had to tell them to-day that I didn’t know 
whether I’d have time to make their favorites, for I 
had a frightful lot of baking in view. Mother had 
about forty women coming to afternoon tea, some 
kind of political shivoo. Still, I’d rather have my 
part of the work than Marjoram’s ; she has to help 
mother talk to them. You know as long as I have 
plenty of time I quite like cooking. I don’t believe 
I spoke the truth to Gordon, I believe even if I was 
quite rich I should still like to do it. And sewing 
too — it’s such fun doing things and feeling, when 
you look at a finished article, that it’s all your very 
own work, and nobody else can share the credit. It’s 
nice to wear a pretty dress some one else has made 
for you, but to wear one you’ve made for yourself is 
quite a different feeling altogether. 

Bob will be back in a couple of days now. I had 
a note from him this afternoon ; it is absurd the 
thrilly feeling his handwriting on the envelope gives 
me. And I had a joint letter from the boys by the 
same post ; they still are enthusiastic about farming, 
and Micky sends a few impertinent messages about 
Gordon. The people they have gone to are distant 
relations of the Hastes, and according to both, one 
of the daughters is amazingly pretty. Vane says 
Micky is deeply smitten. The Melbourne girl and 


26 o 


TIME DAY 


Fay are both cut out, but if I know Micky, it won^t 
last long. He himself is still blind to the charms of 
any girl but Ada — so he says. 

I think I hear Gordon’s voice in the passage. He 
is calling for me and we are going round to Maida’s 
to-night, she rang me up and said she wanted to see 
me. She has some very bad news for me, so she 
says, she said she couldn’t even give me a hint of 
it on the ’phone; I wonder whatever it can be. 
Gracious, it never occurred to me, could it be any- 
thing about Bob ? Oh ! good-bye, G.G.C., I must 
get round and find out what it is, and Gordon is 
calling me ; good-bye. 


CHAPTER XXXV 


ADVICE ON MARRIAGE 

Great-grandchildren, my heart is broken 1 
What do you think Maida^s bad news was ? Oh, I 
hate Bob Gale, he’ll never be your great-grandpa 
now ; he’s a beast, a beast. I never want to see or 
speak to him again. And Ida too on top of it. Oh I 
is the whole world dirty ? It’s hateful, horrible ; it 
makes me feel soiled all over. I can’t realize it ; you 
read about such things in the papers, but it’s ever so 
much dreadfuller when it’s people you know. 

Oh ! I can’t cry any more, I just feel hot and 
angry. I feel bewildered too, it seems it can’t be 
true, but I know it is. Oh ! how can people do such 
things? No wonder Ida said I’d never kiss her 
again, and yet I don’t know, I suppose she has an 
excuse. She said herself she can’t live without love, 
and her husband didn’t give her any. I suppose I 
oughtn’t to blame her too hard. Though every one 
else does. Mother has forbidden me to go near her 
again. 

They say her husband’s already started proceed- 
ings. I suppose that’s what was upsetting Ida when 
I was in last; she must have known, and it’s all 
round Sydney now. Poor Ida ! I wish I could go 
and see her, but I daren’t while mother’s on the 


262 


TIME O' DAY 


rampage like this. Oh I mother is wild, she keeps 
going off at me for being friendly with her, and says 
I may be called as a witness if the case gets into the 
courts, and all my life people will say, “ Oh, the 
Miss O^Dea that was mixed up in the Lester divorce 
case, isn’t it ? ” because no one ever stops to explain 
how you were mixed up in things like that, the mere 
fact condemns you from the outset. It would be 
ghastly, wouldn’t it ? I should die of horror. Surely 
I can’t be, but the law seems to drag in all kinds of 
innocent people, and I have seen a lot of her and 
Lance together, and I might have to tell about that. 

I suppose it is Lance at the bottom of it. I’m scared 
to go in and see her ; besides, perhaps she’d resent 
it and think me just curious, and I daren’t defy 
mother either. I wish I wasn’t so afraid of her, but 
we all are. 

Oh I what horrible, sordid things divorces are. 
Perhaps she won’t defend the case ; somehow I think 
she’d be too proud. They say her husband took a 
detective in to surprise her, spied on her from the 
roof or something. He’s quite capable of it. There’s 
not much romance about wronged husbands and un- 
faithful wives when it’s conducted like that, is there ? i 
It’s the sordidness of it that’s so revolting, and oh ! | 
Bob is even worse. What do you think he’s been I 
doing since he got back from Melbourne ? I can 
hardly bear to tell even you, G.G.C., it makes me i 
feel ashamed to write it, but — well, he’s been stay- i 
ing with that Anderson woman at Ashfield, and he i 
told me he didn’t know who she was. Liar ! All| 


ADVICE ON MARRIAGE 263 

men are liars. Perhaps he's been there with her 
half the time instead of Melbourne, how can any of 
us tell ? He and his precious business indeed I 
And to go straight to her from me, after kissing me 
at Thirroul. I won’t marry him, I won’t now, and 
yet — oh I I know it’s despicable of me, but I want 
to more than ever; what do you think of that, 
G.G.C. ? Or have you ever felt the same ? 

But I know now I love him. If I didn’t I wouldn’t 
be so furious and hurt. I wonder if Bob would ever 
dream how much it hurts me and if he’d care if he 
did. I suppose he’d think me unreasonable. Most 
men think women are. 

I don’t know who to ask advice from either. It’s 
such an awkward subject, isn’t it ? Even Maida is 
no good here, for she hasn’t an atom of feeling for 
him. I suppose she’s hard because she’s been lucky 
enough to strike a good husband. And Gordon — 
well, I don’t mind discussing such a thing theoret- 
ically with him, but when it comes to telling him 
about a man I know — somehow it doesn’t seem 
quite fair to Bob either. All the same, I shouldn’t 
be surprised if Gordon knows ; it’s wonderful how 
things like that get round. 

I felt so miserable last night I told mother about 
it. She is awfully clever, you see, and knows heaps 
about men, and she is so much older than I — I 
didn’t like doing it, but going to bed I suddenly 
felt I couldn’t bear it any longer by myself. I can’t 
tell Marje, because she would be shocked, and the 
triplets are out of the question of course. I stood 


TIME DAY 


264 

for a long while with my hand on the knob of 
mother’s door, and then I summoned resolution 
enough to knock; when I’d done that I felt like 
running away, but of course I had to go in. 

But when I got in I pretended I only wanted to 
ask her how many were coming to lunch next day. 
She was sitting reading in a dressing-gown, and the 
light winked and blinked among the silver on her 
table, and made cozy shadows in the blue curtains, 
and reflected all the glitter and shade in the mirrors. 

She went on reading, and after I had asked her, 
I fidgeted round ; I couldn’t make up my mind 
either to ask her, or to go out, and at last she put 
her book down and looked at me with her big grey 
eyes — they are such beautiful eyes, but as hard as 
nails ; they only soften when she looks at Betty, who 
has her own dark curls and little even teeth ; the 
rest of us are all fair. 

“ I wish you wouldn’t fidget so, Thyme,” she said 
in her even voice. Do you want anything else ? 
I can’t keep my attention on my book.” 

I hung on to my courage with both hands and 
feet. “ I want your advice,” I said. 

“ You often do,” she replied calmly ; ‘‘but I notice 
you seldom take it.” 

I was still silent. 

‘‘ Well ? ” she said. 

And then I blurted the story out, what Maida had 
told me. You see Tom saw them together there. 
Mother got up while I was talking and played with 
the mirror on her table. 


ADVICE ON MARRIAGE 265 

“ Well?” she said again when I had finished. 

“ Would you marry him ? ” I asked bluntly. 

And then, for the first time for years and years, 
mother took me in her arms and held me close to 
her, and it seemed as if she'd taken the corsets off 
her heart too. Sometimes I wonder if she ever 
loved any one : one of my aunts once told me that 
mother was quite different as a girl, she liked every- 
body, and was gay and nonsensical like me, and she 
was going to marry a quite poor man but he jilted 
her. Then she married dad. Sometimes I wonder 
whether she would love us all like she does Betty if 
the other man was our father. 

” Poor child,” she said gently, and kissed me. 
” The problem has come to you that comes to many 
a woman. It is a terrible shock, dear, I know, but 
even your mother cannot help you. The one ques- 
tion is, do you love him enough to forgive and to 
try to forget ? Is your affection so great that you 
can marry him in spite of what you know ? Only 
your heart can answer that.” 

** If only all men were like Gordon,” I said. 

“Why not marry Gordon, then?” mother asked, 
and smiled inscrutably. 

“Gordon!” I echoed, amazed at the attack from 
mother on top of the rest. “ He wouldn't have me.” 

“ Ah ! ” said mother. “ Please close the door after 
you. Thyme, when you go out.” 

That was a polite dismissal. 

So I'm not much better off, am I ? I haven't seen 
Bob yet. He wanted to come round to-night, but I 


266 


TIME DAY 


pleaded a bad cold as an excuse when he rang up. 
I really have an awful one ; the sort that makes your 
eyes teary and your nose run, and you look a general 
fright. He’s a hypocrite as well as a liar. He pre- 
tended to be frightfully disappointed he couldn’t see 
me, and said he’d just been counting the days till he 
got back. Yes, counting them with the Anderson 
woman, no doubt. 

I wish I could tell him what I think of him, but it 
wouldn’t be proper, would it? And cowardly and 
weak as it sounds, I couldn’t feel so cross when he 
was speaking to me, it was so lovely to hear his 
voice again. I had to keep reminding myself he’d 
just come from her not to let myself answer him too 
nicely. 

But I’m sure he felt something’s the matter, he 
sounded quite hurt as he rang off. 

And yet I could find excuses for Ida. I suppose 
if I don’t blame her I shouldn’t him ; perhaps I don’t 
understand that sort of thing yet, as she says. But 
I think now I’ve got a sneaking sympathy for Mr. 
Lester ; it’s all very fine to be broad-minded in theory, 
but when it’s some one belonging to you — and I 
never knew before how I loved him. 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


THYME IS JEALOUS 

No ; I can t marry Bob now, I just can^t. Of course, 
G.G.C., you may think Pm a bit premature turning 
a man down before he asks me ; but he means to, I 
know, or rather he did mean to ; Pm not sure he will 
now after the way I treated him. You see when he 
kissed me at Thirroul it was really a proposal, we 
both knew it. Pm not an ignorant debutante, a girl 
like me learns when a man kisses her for fun and 
when he does it because he loves her and wants to 
marry her. He only didn^t ask me pointblank there 
because for one thing he didn’t have time, and 
another he was afraid I wouldn’t value him if I got 
him too easily. He knows a lot about women. But 
he considers we’re demi-semi-engaged, and so do 
other people. 

Mother wants me to have him, you know, although 
she’s far too clever to say so, and even the triplets 
take it for granted. I got quite wild with them to- 
day. I caught Fay and Betty discussing how nice 
it would be to come and stay with Bob and me 
sometimes, when we were married, and perhaps his 
people in Melbourne would come in handy too. I 
was angry. I turned on them and gave them a bit 
of my annoyance red-hot. That cheeky little Betty 
simply turned on her heel and said : 


268 


TIME DAY 


** Of course, if you’re going to be a fool, there’s 
nothing more to be said, but I only wish I had half 
your chances. You’d see. It’s all very well to stick 
on airs. Thyme,” the brat went on — she’s fourteen, 
mind you — “ just because you’re pretty ; but it won’t 
last forever, and you’ll look nice on the shelf with 
Ada and Fay and me coming on.” 

You know, the deadly common sense in her words 
paralyzed me. It’s so true. 

“And,” she added, as a parting shot, “ when you’re 
picking him you might remember there are enough 
of us to look after as it is, without tacking on poor 
relations.” 

Oh ! she is like mother. 

He would be a most advantageous marriage, of 
course — I’m not fool enough to blink that — but the 
question is, could I stand it ? He’s broken my heart, 
but it s not this time so much ; he’d do it again and 
again when we’re married and he’d got used to me, 
if he can insult me like that when he still thinks he 
loves me. Don’t you agree with me, children ? 

And I was simply horrid to him at the party. We 
all went to Hyles’s last night ; they had a hunting 
party. Now don’t conjure up a vision of bugles and 
beagles and busters. This was a motto hunt. You 
divide yourselves into equations on the assumption 
that 2 = happiness, and proceed up the garden by 
various paths to collect off the bushes such mottoes as 
“ Make love while the moon shines ” and “ Where 
there’s a Will there’s a Wilhelmina.” 

I went hunting with Gordon. Of course it was 


THYME IS JEALOUS 


269 

beastly of me, I know, but I couldn’t go out in the 
dark with Bob ; he might have kissed me again, and 
I couldn’t have borne it fresh from that Anderson 
woman. I asked Gordon to be my partner going 
and stick to me all evening. He looked a bit sur- 
prised, but he answered promptly : 

“Smile at me, and if you used Seccotine you 
couldn’t do the job more neatly.” 

Isn’t he a dear not to ask questions? But just 
because he didn’t I felt I had to explain a bit. 

“ I — I don’t want to go with Mr. Gale,” I said. 
“ Don’t you give me up even if — if he asks me, 
Gordon.” 

“ All right,” Gordon said resignedly. “ But why 
choose me of all men for the ignominious position of 
catspaw? Besides, as an unprejudiced observer, I 
should say you had the whole game in your hands 
without finessing.” 

I felt myself get red in the dark. 

“ It isn’t that at all, Gordon. I’m not trying to 
bring him up to the scratch at all, honest. I — I — oh 

dear ” and before I knew what I was doing I 

had told him all about it. He listened without com- 
ment. He didn’t say anything except, “ I see. Poor 
kid.” 

And he gave my arm a bit of a squeeze, and then 
we were inside, and there was the chatter and laugh- 
ter and pretty faces and glimpses of shoulders and 
the nice cool background of quietly dressed men. 

Bob saw me the minute I entered the room, and 
smiled across at me — that confidential quick kind of 


270 


TIME DAY 


smile we keep for our dearest people among strangers, 
and as soon as he could decently break away he came 
to me. One can^t say much in a crowd, so I don't 
think he noticed anything wrong till they began to 
pair off. I couldn't help being almost as nice as 
usual either. Why has he got such a thawing smile? 
It didn't seem believable about Ashfield while he was 
there talking, and yet it was at the back of my mind 
all the time, and every minute he was beside me I 
somehow felt meaner and meaner, as if I were in the 
wrong, not he. And when the others began to dis- 
perse, and he said in a quiet take-it-for-granted- 
no-other-arrangement-possible way, “Shall we go 
now ? " I wished I could get under the carpet. If 
Gordon hadn't been there I should have got up and 
gone with him, I know I should, but I was both 
vexed and relieved to hear him say coolly : 

“ Sorry, Gale, but Thyme's my partner." 

I felt hot all over and then cold, and I wouldn't 
meet Bob's eyes, though I could feel their amaze- 
ment and wrath through my lids, but after a second's 
pause he just bowed and said : 

“ I'm sorry." 

I watched him go and ask Dolly to be his partner, 
and I could have murdered Gordon, but of course it 
was my own fault. I suppose I minded so much 
because it was Dolly. I can't care about him still, 
can I ? 

But Gordon didn't look comfortable either, and 
when we were fairly outside he said to me : 

“ Look here. Thyme, are you really through with 


THYME IS JEALOUS 


271 

that fellow or not ? For if you’re not, I think you’re 
playing it a bit low down on him to-night. I tell you 
I didn’t like cutting in in that way. I don’t know 
how far you’ve gone with him and I’m not asking, 
but it was plain enough he thinks you ought to be 
his if you’re not.” 

I felt miserable myself, but I couldn’t have Gordon 
slanging me that way, so I tried to be dignified. 

‘‘ Have you forgotten what I told you just now ? ” 
I demanded. 

Gordon kicked a stone thoughtfully. No,” he 
said ; ** but — well. Thyme, you know there’s just a 
chance, isn’t there, it may be a mistake. He’s only 
been seen with her ; he might have half a hundred 
reasons for seeing her besides the one you think, 
there may be nothing in it. Why, I might be seen 
speaking to her myself, but you wouldn’t go jump- 
ing to conclusions, would you ? ” 

** You don’t know her,” I said. 

“ I do,” Gordon retorted coolly, “ and, what’s more, 
she’s an interesting woman to talk to. Good 
heavens I don’t put your nose up like that, you con- 
founded little hypocrite. Do you think the woman’s 
a wild beast because she doesn’t choose to live up to 
your standards ? How do you know what her up- 
bringing or her circumstances were : do you think 
her life’s all pleasure ? Do you think any human 
being defies the social laws for the fun of it ? Not 
they. They have to pay too heavily. Lulu Ander- 
son’s no coward, and in theory she doesn’t give a 
damn for the whole incompetent, sheltered, sneering 


272 


TIME O’ DAY 


herd of you, but she told me that sometimes even she 
feels other women’s glances sear her like whip-lashes. 
You’re a set of calculating hypocrites,” he went on 
scornfully. “ What’s the difference between you and 
Lulu where Bob’s concerned ? Because he’s rich he 
can have his will of you both ; the only advantage to 
you is you’re so sheltered in your position that he has 
to put marriage in your bribe ; it saves your face be- 
fore the world if not your self-respect. But you’re 
both of you only selling yourselves for money.” 

“ I’m not,” I denied half-crying. “ I love him, so 
there I ” 

“ Rats ! ” said Gordon. ‘‘ If you loved him, you 
wouldn’t let a thing like that stand between you. 
You’d win him away from her.” 

“ You don’t understand,” I said, crying outright 
by now, ** men never do. It’s not him I hate, it’s her. 
She’s spoiling him for me. When you love a man 
you love everything about him, good or bad, noble 
or base, and you want to give him everything he 
wants, and you want him to want everything, and — 
and you don’t want other women to — to — oh, don’t 
you see, Gordon, it’s humiliating, but I’m — I’m 
jealous.” 

And I cried like anything, and of course, just as 
luck would have it. Bob came by and saw Gordon 
trying to soothe me. He’ll never forgive me now 
even if I could forgive him, for Gordon had both 
arms round me. He thinks I’ve only been flirting 
with him. Not that he avoided me ; he came and 
talked to me at supper, but only in a polite way — 


THYME IS JEALOUS 


273 

nicely polite, you know — no one but me could have 
seen the difference ; perhaps I even didn’t see it, but 
I felt it, and at the end he said : 

** Shall I take you home or are you going with 
Haste ? ” And as I hesitated he added, “ I suspect 
you’d rather he did. He lives next door, doesn’t he, 
so I’ll say good-night.” 

And he never asked when he’d see me again, or 
anything ! I’m so miserable. I can’t help it, I love 
him whether he’s bad or not. 

Oh, Bob, I am so sorry. But I don’t suppose I’ll 
ever get the chance to tell you so, and perhaps I 
wouldn’t if I did. 

Well, it’s no use sitting here crying. I’d better go 
to bed. But oh. Bob, you can’t be unhappier than I 
am. I do love you, I do. 


CHAPTER XXXVII 


THE BATTLEGROUND OF LIFE 

It’s such a beastly day, and my cold’s still rather 
miserable, and Bob hasn’t been near me. I did 
think he would come last night, but he never even 
rang up. He must be angrier than I thought. I 
waited and waited, and inch by inch and minute by 
minute my heart went down to my boots. 

At first I was very defiant. If he’d come at half- 
past seven I was prepared to be cold and uncom- 
promising ; at eight o’clock I was dignified and in- 
tolerant of questions as to my right to behave as I 
pleased ; at half-past eight I would have been flighty 
and teasing ; at nine I would have forgiven him at 
the first loving words ; at ten I went to bed and cried 
myself to sleep. 

But of course I laugh in front of the family. I’d 
die sooner than let them guess. Besides, I laugh 
even to myself — habit’s more of a support than relig- 
ion in a crisis, I think. And it’s funny how you try 
to live up to what people expect of you. People ex- 
pect gaiety, you know, from a girl Nature gave 
dimples and kiss-curls. You’d as soon expect a snail 
to go aeroplaning as me to take a dip into tragedy. 
I remember once, ages ago, I was told that I couldn’t 
possibly ever bore any one, I was so vivacious. I had 


THE BATTLEGROUND OF LIFE 275 

no more idea before that I was vivacious than I was 
aware I ate my dinner properly, but from that day 
I felt I had a reputation to live up to — it’s queer. 

And Marje is so cross — I mean about Max. Why 
can’t he leave me alone ? I don’t want his letters. 
Oh, I’m in a mess all round, and as Maida’s away 
for a week’s holiday, I can’t even go and cry it out 
on Peterjohn’s pinafore. It’s Max’s last letter, you 
see. I don’t know what’s the matter with him ; he’s 
never dared to write things like that before. 

I won't be browbeaten or assumed off into marry- 
ing any one I don’t want. Oh, I know I’m mean 
and unjust, but no one has any right to speak to me 
like Marjoram did, and it’s his fault she got wild. 
Marje swears if I don’t be honest with him she’ll 
write herself and tell him about Bob and Gordon. 
She’s given me a week to do it in. I simply can’t, 
G.G.C. What shall I do ? If I only was an unfeel- 
ing flirt I’d do it like a shot, but I can’t bear to hurt 
any one, and that’s why I get into such scrapes. 

If I could only not mind wounding people’s feel- 
ings. It seems so queer. I try to be nice to every 
one, and I do love those around me to be peaceful 
and happy, and yet I always seem to be getting into 
hot water. Marjoram is as nasty to me as she can 
be, and she is my pet sister. I wouldn’t have shown 
her this letter, but I always let her read them, so 
when I left the blessed thing lying on my dressing- 
table, she picked it up. It serves me right for leav- 
ing it about. She’s done nothing ever since but give 
me bits of her mind, and for me to tell her that she’ll 


TIME O’ DAY 


276 

be a gibbering idiot if she doesn^t soon put a limit to 
her generosity only seems to lend her fresh strength. 
Now I ask you, G.G.C., was it my fault ? Fve never I 
done anything to give him the right to send me a 
paragraph like this. 

It’s beastly cheek. Just you listen : 

“ I wish you knew what a cold haven’t-had-any- 
dinner-for-a-week feeling settles at the pit of my 
stomach when there’s no Sydney postmark for me. 

I almost believe you’d write a bit oftener. Perhaps 
I’m gloriously selfish to ask it, but man is a selfish 
animal, the which is generally treated as an excuse 
and not a mere fact. But when they do come they 
are treasured, I can tell you, and carried in my pocket 
and read and folded up and reread till, from their 
sorry appearance, no one who didn’t know what a 
little gold mine of preciousness they were or what a 
soft brown hand penned them would pick them out 
of the gutter with a pair of tongs. 

“ Still, I suppose there are a good many other 
fellows sharing what time they can between them 
(do you see the awful pun ?), and I mustn’t be too 
greedy, for I wouldn’t for the world have you think 
I grudge you all the fun you can get. I believe a 
blessed little angel put it into your head to make 
me ” (listen to that — I made him I) “ give up travel- 
ing. I’ve tumbled into a lovely soft billet and am 
getting a screw of £ 2 ^ 0 , but I don’t suppose that’s 
quite enough to marry on, do you think ? ” 

And that’s what I get for trying to be nice to him 
for his mother’s sake. It upset me so I even ex- 


THE BATTLEGROUND OF LIFE 277 

plained it hypothetically to dad — supposing things, 
you know — but he wouldn’t be serious, only patted 
my head and said I’d get out of it best without my 
parent’s interference ; women, if anything, were a 
little too clever at getting out of ticklish situations. 

I feel a beast, but you know Max has never said 
anything quite so pointblank before, and, anyway, 
he’s got no business to take it calmly for granted I’m 
going to marry him just because I’ve been a little 
nice. Men are so jolly conceited. Besides, he’s been 
away such a long time — over a year. How can he 
expect me to know whether I like him or not ? It’s 
perfectly unreasonable. 

Gordon puts things beautifully. He said last night 
that the world feels sometimes like a big battle- 
ground at twilight, where no man can see the face 
of friend or enemy, and fights wildly, blindly striking 
half the time at shadows, fatiguing himself for no 
good, till the mist grows thicker and thicker and 
clings chokingly about him, while he hears — it seems 
thousands of miles away — the rollicking drum, where 
a little sunshine has rifted through on some lucky 
battlers round the standard. 

That’s just how I feel, and I’m sure I don’t know 
what to do, and I don’t suppose Bob will ever come 
back to me now, and I don’t suppose I ought to want 
him to, but I do so dreadfully. And Ida and her 
husband are still estranged. He may not be going 
to divorce her, though, after all; she doesn’t think 
he’ll dare try. She says he’s frightened at the things 
that might come out about himself, and as she said 


TIME DAY 


278 

it her little teeth met in a snap that somehow made 
me shiver. She looked so — so — I can’t find the 
word — almost brutal ; she is too delicate and small 
to look it exactly, but she did all the same. She is 
furious with him for the gossip that has got round. 
We haven’t talked much about it, but I slipped in to 
see her this morning. I felt such a beast, stopping 
away as if I were too proud to talk to her now she 
is threatened with disgrace. I’m not a bit. I sup- 
pose we all do foolish things when we’re hungry for 
love. I know what that feeling is now. 

Mother wasn’t up, so I slipped in through the side 
gate and was back before breakfast. I’m frightfully 
glad I risked it, for she was so glad to see me ; she 
said I was a brick. But I felt awfully shy of talking 
about it — I didn’t want to seem inquisitive — and 
perhaps my being shy made her too. At any rate, 
she didn’t say much. She thinks he only means to 
hold it over her as a threat to make her ask her rela- 
tions for some more money. Ugh I that makes it 
more sordid than ever, doesn’t it? It seems she’s 
got very rich relations, but she says she just won’t 
ask them. She never got on with her stepsisters or 
stepmother, or even with her own father, very well, 
and she ran away and married Mr. Lester against 
his wishes ; and though once or twice he has helped 
them even since that, she has hated the humiliation 
of it, and she says she won’t ask for another penny, 
not even if Mr. Lester carries out his threat. She’ll 
let him divorce her first. It’s rather fine of her, isn’t 
it ? I don’t think I could be as steadfast as all that ; 


THE BATTLEGROUND OF LIFE 279 

I think I'd do anything sooner than be dragged 
through the courts, but Ida just sets her teeth and 
says he'd just better try. 

I told her about Bob, too. I didn’t mean to, but 
it came out somehow as we were talking. I suppose 
I was so miserable I couldn't keep it to myself any 
longer, and she said she didn't believe it and was 
sure I was making myself unhappy for a mistake. 
She said I ought to give him a chance to clear him- 
self before condemning him. Oh, I wish I could, 
but how could I accuse him of a thing like that ? I 
couldn’t. I should die of shame. But talking with 
her has upset me dreadfully. Just suppose Maida 
has made a mistake. It would be too glorious to be 
true. Bob I Bob ! suppose I can go on loving you — 
only you’ll never know now. 

It's strange that Ida, of all people, should be so 
sure he's straight, isn’t it ? How can she tell, espe- 
cially as she doesn't know him, but I expect she only 
said it to comfort me. 

Oh, isn't life hateful, so pretty on top and all the 
crawly black things just underneath ! And now I 
must do my hair and put on a smile and go down to 
help entertain. There are people coming for dinner. 
And all I want to do is cry. A fat lot of good that 
does any one ! I'm going to change my frock this 
minute ; still, I think I'd better bathe my eyes first. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 


A LETTER FROM BOB 

I FEEL absurdly happy again, and even the 
weather’s decided to sympathize and has turned 
sunny, and my cold is getting better. But Bob’s 
coming up to-night. 

“ Oh, frabjous day, calloo callay ! 

He chortled in his joy.*’ 

Yes, I feel exactly like that. Oh I I never knew 
how much I cared till I thought he had given me up 
for good. I really had come to the conclusion this 
morning that he was going to give me up without a 
word. 

After breakfast I took some sewing out on the 
veranda, but everything looked gloomy. Even Fay, 
while she was making the beds, would whistle Days 
and Moments,” and I’d just made up my mind I 
didn’t care for forty Lulu Andersons if Bob would 
only come back to me, and that I’d write and ask 
him to come up, or telephone and pretend nothing had 
happened and that I’d been merely suffering from a 
fit of cantankerousness. And just as I’d made up 
my mind to eat humble pie and felt tons better for it, 
a shrewd-looking youngster swung in at the gate. 

He was going up to the front door, but when he 
saw me in the corner he turned round to me and 


A LETTER FROM BOB 


281 


pulled at his cap, with the usual reluctance of the 
small office-boy, who seems to consider it beneath 
his dignity to show deference to any one. 

“ I got a letter here for Miss Thyme O’Dea,*’ he 
announced. Are you her ? 

“ Yes, I am,^^ I replied. 

Hang on then,*^ he said, and after carefully fish- 
ing in his pocket produced a note. ** Blessing I ain’t 
lost it,” he remarked conversationally as he handed 
it across. “ The boss’d sack me in a jiffy, I guess. 
Wouldn’t blame him neither.” The cheeky young 
imp’s eye took me in appreciatively. I had to laugh 
at his expression, it was so frankly flattering. 

But why did Mr. Gale send it by you,” I asked, 
likewise conversationally, as I tore it open, ” instead 
of posting it? ” 

** ’Ow should I know ? ” he retorted. “ ’E pays me 
to take ’is letters where they’re ticketed to. ’E would 
fetch me one acrost the ear for me lip if I started 
astin’ ’im why ’e makes a pillar-box of me, wouldn’t 
’e just? P’raps the letter’ll tell yer, miss,” he sug- 
gested. “I’ll jest wait round the corner to see if 
there’s any answer,” and away he strolled. You 
wouldn’t have expected such delicacy from a brat 
like that, would you ? 

As soon as he had moved away I read the letter, 
and, do you know, my hands shook so as I unfolded 
it I could hardly read at first. But sending it by 
messenger, and after our three days’ estrangement, 
it was enough to make me nervous. 

The letter started without any salutation ; 


282 


TIME O’ DAY 


“ I have just found out the reason of your treat- 
ment of me. It appears you are not merely the 
heartless coquette I was forced to conclude from 
your conduct. I will come round to-night if it suits 
you and if you will be quite alone, I have a good 
deal to talk over. Bob.” 

The ‘‘quite alone” was scored underneath very 
heavily. I looked round at the flower beds, and 
they all seemed to have gone scarlet and pink again 
instead of grey gloomy purple, and I suppose I was 
beaming like a romantic idiot, for when I called the 
boy he beamed too like my reflection. 

“ Answer, miss ? ” he suggested. 

“Oh, yes, of course,” I said, “in one moment. 

Is How is Mr. Gale? Is he ” I hesitated. 

I couldn’t resist the temptation to question him, I 
did want so dreadfully to know if Bob had been 
feeling miserable too. But there was no need to go 
on, the kid saw through me like a shot, and a sym- 
pathetic grin illumined his face. 

. “ ’Is temper’s been ’ell for the last three days,” he 
said with a funny mixture of freedom and respect. 
“ S’pose it was you, miss. The bets was even in the 
orfis if it was a girl or if ’e’d just been on the loose. 
I bet a girl.” 

“ Did you ? ” I said, smothering a laugh, and I 
went inside to write : 

“ I shall be alone. — Thyme.” 

And I gave it to the small Mercury to take back. 


A LETTER FROM BOB 283 

He looked so knowing when he took it that I posi- 
tively blushed. 

But I am so glad Bob has been short-tempered 
too. It shows he does care, doesn’t it, G.G.C. ? Yes, 
I know Tve climbed down. I suppose it’s weak, but 
I don’t seem to care what he’s done as long as he 
loves me. I can forgive him even that. Perhaps it 
isn’t true, either, though he doesn’t deny it in his 
letter, does he ? He talks as if I were in the wrong, 
and he had all the forgiving to do ; isn’t it adorable 
cheek on his part ? I love him more than ever. 

I promptly went inside and finished up a chiffon 
blouse. I have had it hanging round for days half- 
done, chiffon is such ticklish stuff to handle I some- 
how can only work at it when I feel happy. Per- 
haps I’ll wear it to-night with my cream cloth skirt. 
I must look nice. I’ve picked two beautiful pink 
rosebuds to wear and put them in water in my room. 
Ada saw them when she came in and laughed. 

“ Is Mr. Gale coming? ” she said. “ I thought as 
much,” as I nodded. “ Going to bring the ring to- 
night, Thyme ? ” 

“ Don’t be an idiot,” I said. “ How should I 
know ? ” 

“ Who should know better ? ” Ada retorted. “ You 
might do worse.” 

“ Do shut up,” I said irritably. It’s so horrid the 
way the family all seem to think I favor Bob because 
of his prospects. I didn’t mind it at first, because 
perhaps I thought of them myself ; but now it’s just 
that I love him. 


TIME O’ DAY 


284 

Yes, G.G.C., your poor old great-grandma is 
caught ; the salt is fairly on her tail, and she doesn’t 
mind a bit, so there ! She’s glad. But your great- 
grandpa to be is — well, never mind, you’ll never 
know him, so you can’t understand. 

But I do hope he won^t be very vexed. Suppose 
he doesn’t love me any more, after all, and is just 
coming up to slang me for taking away his charac- 
ter to Gordon, and to say he’s through with me for 
good. He can’t be, he’d write, not come, if it was 
that. But I can’t feel comfortable all the same. I 
wish it was to-night. 

But I must be going to be happy ; it’s so glori- 
ously sunny and there are hundreds and hundreds 
of those gold and black butterflies dancing about the 
flowers. Ada and I caught a dozen of them just 
now — you can pick them off the bushes by their 
wings as easily as can be — and we let them all go 
off together in a cloud, they did look pretty. 

It was so funny, too, just now ; one of the mag- 
pies, in trying to get a drink, fell into the fountain — 
you never heard such a splashing and flapping and 
squawking of despair ; he nearly wet me through as 
I hauled him out, and when I stood there, with water 
dripping down my chin, and said to him severely, 
** Now, Mag, I hope you’re ashamed of yourself,” he 
merely fixed me with a scornful eye, ruffled his 
feathers, and called over his back as he hurried 
away : 

“ Who are you-0-0 ? ” 

I had a letter from Micky this afternoon, but not 


A LETTER FROM BOB 285 

one from Vane, and they usually write together. I 
Iwonder if the cooling process I prophesied has begun 
already. Poor old Ada I if it has, but Pm sure she’ll 
never breathe a word. Not that there’s anything in 
Micky’s letter to make me think that, but often what 
ipeople don’t say makes you more thoughtful than 
'what they do. He only mentioned that the pretty 
daughter is having a hard go for Vane, now. 
Humph I 

And Marje, too ; while I’m on the subject of sis- 
ters, I’ve had the queerest shock about Marje. 
Though I suppose it’s only my imagination, still I 
can’t get rid of the idea. I don’t know when it first 
came to me, but, G.G.C., do you think Max is the 
man she is really keen on ? I know it does sound 
absurd to say so, and yet — now I come to look back 
there are lots of little things — and perhaps that is 
why she gets so angry with me about him. I won- 
der if it could be, poor old Marje ! what a mess up. 
How she must hate me, to think I don’t want a thing 
she can’t have. If he’d only come back, it might 
happen. I’d do all I could to make him see what a 
dear she is, in comparison to a little beast like me. 
But I dare say she’ll be married to Petermac before 
he ever gets back, if he comes at all. What a mud- 
dled old world it is for women. 

But of course I may be only imagining things. 
And oh I Bob’s coming up to-night. 


CHAPTER XXXIX 
GOOD-BYE 


Oh ! great-gfrandchildren, I wish I were dead. It’s 
all off with Bob, off for good really this time. He’ll 
never have anything to do with me again, and it 
seems only yesterday I told you I was going to be 

happy. And the maddening part is Oh ' well 

I suppose it is my fault, I shouldn’t have been so 
afraid of hurting Max. In future I shan’t care a bit 
about anybody but myself. I’ll be selfish and cruel 
and heartless, and then perhaps I’ll be happy. 

Bob came, of course, looking fresh and clean- 

^ “ke a shaving-ball, 

all fluffy. I spent an hour and a half dressing my- 
self, and tried all sorts of frocks and ways of doing- 
my hair. I hesitated for ages between my white 
and a plain grey gown, with my hair taken 
straight off my forehead, with a velvet band and pa- 
thetic droop to my mouth— Gordon says I look like 
a materialized tear-drop in that ; but I remembered 
Bob likes me merry, and I couldn’t be merry in that 
more than you could imagine a Quakeress in a ballet 
I spent a horrible half hour before he came. I 
pretended I was reading, but my heart kept jumping 
into my throat every footstep I heard. I argued it 
out fiercely with myself, but I got worked up into 
such a state of nervousness. I suppose that was at 


GOOD-BYE 


287 

the bottom of the whole trouble. Of course I told 
I myself it was perfectly absurd of me, he was coming 
to make it up and clinch matters, and to-morrow we 
would be engaged, but I would have a cold feeling 
round my stomach all the same, as if Fd eaten too 
many ice-creams. 

! And after all I didn’t hear him ring. I was chas- 
ing Betty down the passage (I found her with one of 
I my most special pet handkerchiefs, which she 
I wouldn’t give up), when we saw him hanging up 
his coat in the hall. I stopped dead and felt awful, 

I and he didn’t smile a bit his old way at me, he 
seemed very stern and polite, and even his red hair 
looked cold. My knees began to feel wobbly with 
: scare, but Betty saved the situation. She flung her- 
self at him beaming like an electric bulb, he can do 
! anything with her. 

We shook hands over Betty’s head and then he 
I pinched her cheek. Hello, kid,” he said. (Betty 
would box my ears if I called her kid, but she only 
went on beaming.) 

You might find a chocolate or two in my coat,” 
he told her, ‘‘ if you go and look.” 

Betty released her hold and grinned meaningly. 
“ I can take a hint as well as any one,” she observed. 
“ I suppose you two are going outside.” 

Bob never turned a hair. I do love his self-pos- 
session. ** It’s rather a nice night,” he assented, 
“ unless,” he turned to me, “ is it too cold for you ? 
Would you like a wrap ?” 

I just shook my head, I couldn’t speak, his manner 


288 


TIME DAY 


was sort of paralyzing me. I never knew Bob could 
have made me feel so insignificant, he has always 
spoilt me from our first minute of meeting. I have 
heard other girls say he was rather stand-offish and 
wondered how they could ; now I was learning why. 
And you know he hadn't once spoken my name. 

By a sort of tacit consent we went to our old corner 
and for a while we sat there saying nothing. And 
every minute I felt more queer and scared, and as if 
some one was walking over my grave. And then I 
had the most frightful suspicion : suppose there was 
some other girl, suppose he had really stopped caring 
for me and wanted to get out of it, but felt he had 
gone so far that he was bound in honor to propose 
to me, and didn’t know how to begin. I went cold 
at the thought, and then he started speaking. 

“ Thyme,” he said in a grave different kind of 
voice from any Fd heard him use before, “ Fve some- 
thing very difficult to say to you.” 

He paused again. I couldn’t say a word, I could 
not^ my lips were dry. I licked them ever so many 
times, but nothing would come. I felt as if all the 
starch had gone out of my frills and my curls were 
straight wisps of hair. 

“ It’s a difficult subject to discuss,” he went on in 
the same distant way. ** Maybe I’m old-fashioned. 
I know men and girls discuss a good many things 
together in these days of Shawism, and free love, 
and other such mad theories ” (I thought of Gordon 
and felt abashed), “ but, personally, I couldn’t talk 
about such things with any girl except one I hoped 


GOOD-BYE 289 

to make my wife, and unless she had forced me to 
do so/' 

He stopped and seemed to wait for something, so 
I forced out a whispery “ Yes." 

“ I’m not going to tell you how I heard, but I’ve 
been given to understand that you’ve been believing 
me a more than ordinarily putrid rotter for the last 
few days. I felt I owed it to myself and you to tell 
you that what you heard, though how you heard it 
I can’t imagine, is not true. I hope,’’ he added, 
‘‘ you believe my word." 

“ Oh, I do, I do," I stammered. “ I beg your 
pardon. I ’’ But he held up an arresting hand. 

"It — it hurt me. Thyme, that you believed me 
capable of offering an insult like that to the girl I 
love. On my honor. Thyme, I’ve never given one 
thought to another woman since I knew I wanted 
you. And Daytime" — his voice suddenly altered 
to the voice he always uses to me, only even sweeter 
— " you’re going to let me have you, aren’t you ? ’’ 

What could I say but " Yes," G.G.C. ? Anyway, 
I didn’t want to say different. 

" And now, dearest," he said later, a lot later, 
when we had calmed down a bit, " I’ll tell you just 
how I happened to be with her. No," as I protested, 
" I know you believe me anyway, but it’s a family 
affair, and you’ve a right now to know. As a mat- 
ter of fact I’ve seen her more than once lately on the 
family’s behalf. I’m not going into all the details for 
you, but the long and short of it is that she’s got my 
brother Stan pretty well under her thumb. In fact 


TIME DAY 


290 

he’s crazy to marry her, the idiot ; he’s even given 
her a promise in writing, and she’s using it to levy 
blackmail on us. But the worst is that Stan’s in- 
fatuation still lasts, that’s why we don’t want him to 
come to Sydney if we can possibly help it, but from 
the looks of things he’ll have to take my place soon, 
and so we’re trying to settle with her. You may,” 
he smiled at me, “ hear of my seeing her again.” 

“ How horrid,” I said. 

“ It is,” he agreed, ‘‘ to think I may be giving 
you that for a sister-in-law.” 

I thought of what Gordon had told me. “ But 
perhaps, perhaps she’s not so bad, Bob,” I said 
timidly. “ She mightn’t really want to be. Per- 
haps if you let her marry your brother ” I 

stopped hastily, for Bob’s face was thunderous. 

“ You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he 
said. “ Let us talk of something else.” Then the 
smile came back to his eyes. “ Let’s talk of us. 
Daytime, are you sure you love me?” 

I laughed up at him. ‘‘ Nearly,” I said 

“You little tease,” he answered. “But, you 
know. Daytime, you ought to be good to me ; 
you’ve made me horribly miserable lately. I’ve 
been feeling like a bear with a sore head ever since 
that party. I couldn’t understand what had hap- 
pened since Thirroul. And when I came along and 
saw Haste with his arms round you, well ” 

“ But you must have known I loved you,” I said. 

“I thought so, but you might have been only 
playing with me. You’ve rather a name of 


GOOD-BYE 


291 


Never mind, you can^t help men loving you, can 
you, pet? And I’m sure they don’t want to help it 
—I didn’t.” 

We both laughed. 

“ But it will stop now, won’t it ? ” he went on in a 
queer mixture of tenderness and authority. “ I’m a 
jealous brute, girlie, and I couldn’t stand any more 
scenes like I interrupted the other night.” 

“ But Gordon was only trying to stop me crying,” 
I explained. “ I was miserable about you, and Gor- 
don and I are such friends.” 

“ Humph ! ” said Bob. “All the same, you needn’t 
go seeing too much of him, you know.” 

“ Oh ! ” I said disconsolately, “ I don’t see how I 
can stop it.” 

“ Well, if you don’t, I will,” Bob threatened, half 
laughing, half serious. ** And then our blood will 
be on your head. Besides, it’s not fair to him.” 

“ But, Bob,” I protested, amazed at his joining in 
the Gordon-chorus, ** truly we’re only friends; he 
doesn’t care about me that way.” 

‘‘ Humph 1 ” Bob said again. ‘‘ Well, he’s been a 
sport to me ; perhaps we’ll pass him. But, girlie, 
there’s no one else, is there ? I mean no one that 
counts? We’ve got to play the game fair now, 
both of us. I never blame a pretty girl for having 
fun, with all the temptation to it she’s got; but I 
like it open and aboveboard. I can’t forgive de- 
ceit. There’s no one else ? ” 

Oh, G.G.C., why did I answer No ” ? Why was 
I such a fool ? To think one little careless question 


TIME O’ DAY 


292 

should ruin my life. But I had made up my mind { 
to write to Max that very night, and he was so far 
away, and I didn’t want Bob to think I hadn’t been 
playing square, and it would have been so difficult ’ 
to explain 1 Oh ! I had a hundred reasons, and I , 
answered “No.” 

“ My little girl,” Bob said softly. “ Forgive my j 
asking, dear, but you know how people talk, and 
Fd heard a rumor about some fellow in the west, or 
somewhere. I know you can’t help his loving you, 
dear, but I couldn’t bear to think that my little girl 
had been heartlessly stringing a fellow on, especially < 
when he’s away.” 

I shivered. Somehow I’d never realized before 
that was what my cowardice was making me do. 
In not wanting to hurt Max, I’d really hurt him 
more in the end. It sounded awful when Bob put 
it like that. I hated myself. Oh ! why didn’t I tell 
him about it then? It would have been hard, but 
he did love me, and I could have made him see how 
I felt — but I didn’t. 

Bob put both my arms round his neck and bent 
his head. 

“ Give me a kiss, Thyme,” he whispered, and I 
put my face up ; but, just as our lips touched, I said, 

“ Oh I ” I didn’t say it exactly, it just seemed as if 
all the breath in me crept slowly out in an unearthly 
sigh, as it would if, in the height of happiness, you 
saw a ghost, and for a minute I thought I had. 

“ What is it ? ” Bob said, looking round quickly. 
And then his nose wrinkled in a frown, for a man 


GOOD-BYE 


293 


was standing quite close to us, and I suppose we did 
look a bit ridiculous, and most men hate to look 
idiotic in front of another man, and, great-grand- 
children, the man was — Max ! 

It was impossible, of course, and absurd, and the 
hundred-to-one chance, and everything else, but there 
he was. If only my nerves hadn’t been so to pieces 
that night I wouldn’t have made a shipwreck of 
everything. I’d have introduced Bob before Max 
had time to speak, and told him we were engaged, 
and then through sheer chivalry he’d have had to 
hold his tongue and play up to me. But I could 
think of nothing to say. I leaned, shivering, up 
against Bob’s arm, and gazed at Max, and I suppose 
my face was like a sheet ; but I couldn’t realize it 
wasn’t an awful nightmare, just a phantom of con- 
science, who stood there gazing at me in thunder- 
struck reproach. 

Now of course it all seems natural enough. Max 
got leave unexpectedly for his holiday, and never let 
us know he was coming because he wanted to sur- 
prise us, but then — it was the suddenness of it robbed 
me of my wits, I suppose, and I suppose our faces 
made Bob think it was worse than it was. You 
mustn’t blame him, G.G.C. ; it was all my fault, only 
I wish I were dead. 

He looked at us both, and his face grew quite 
fierce and cold. He disengaged his arm gently from 
mine, and I could not utter a word to stop him. I 
stood rigid, as if I had been glued to the spot, and 
simply stared horror-struck at Max. 


TIME DAY 


294 

And then Max spoke in a dull tone. 

“ I beg your pardon, Thyme, I should have gone to 
the door, but I saw you from the gate and thought , 
you were alone. I’m sorry.” He hesitated a mo- 
ment, and turned to go. 

I couldn’t speak, but Bob cut in with a voice like ( 
a steel trap snapping together. 

“ One moment, please. It must be rather annoy- 
ing for you. Thyme, to have your scenes always 
interrupted. Allow me, sir, to offer you my 
sympathy ; having been in your position myself I ] 
can appreciate it. I am afraid my presence embar- • 
rasses both of you, so will relieve you of it.” 

“ Bob I ” I said, and my voice broke. He was i 
cruel, G.G.C., but then see how black things looked 
for me. He half turned and seemed to consider ; 
when he spoke again his voice was calmer, but just ^ 
as deadly cold. 

“ May I ask,” he said, addressing himself to Max, j 
** if you have any claim on this lady ? ” ' 

I tried to look appealingly at Max, but the muscles 
of my face seemed frozen. 

“ That,” he replied, “ is for Thyme to say.” , 

How could he, how could he ? Why didn’t he lie 
outright? But I suppose he was bewildered and 
angry too. 

Bob smiled, a pleasant smile that was more cruel 
than a blow. “ Well, I’ve had a fair innings, so it 
seems about time I left the field clear for the next 
claimant. You seem to like variety, Thyme. Good- 
bye I ” 


GOOD-BYE 


295 

He went away, and I watched him, dry-eyed and 
silent. He left Max and me facing each other. Un- 
til he was out of sight I never uttered a sound, but 
as soon as he was really gone I turned on Max like 
a fury. ‘‘ I hate you, I hate you,'' I sobbed. ‘‘ I 
never want to see you again as long as I live.” 

I don^t know now how I could have been so cruel, 
but love is pitiless sometimes toward any but its 
object ; at any other time the hurt wonder of Max’s 
face would have melted me, but in that moment I 
could have killed him. He stepped forward with a 
little pleading gesture, but I waved him off. 

You’ve ruined my life,” I said. “ Now I hope 
you’re satisfied.” 

Max’s face seemed to go quite white, but perhaps 
it was only the moonbeams. “ Do you love him ? ” 
he said. 

” Yes, I do,” I sobbed, half mad with wrath and 
fear, ‘‘and now he’ll never speak to me again. 
Oh I oh I 'oh I ” I sobbed in a crescendo, and I fairly 
broke down and cried like a baby. I had just 
enough remnants of decency to be ashamed of my- 
self, and I made a dash for the house. In the hall I 
banged into Marjoram, and I suppose I looked a 
pretty sight with the tears pouring down my nose. 

“ What on earth’s up ? ” she gasped. 

“ Max,” I sniffed ; “ he’s outside, and Bob’s wild, 

and ” Here I broke down again, but through 

the distorting tears I saw Marjoram apparently doing 
unsteady Catherine wheels to the door. 

I can’t bear it, I just can’t. I love him so. Oh ! he 


TIME DAY 


296 

oughtn^t to give me up like that. \ wish I 

couldn’t have borne it if it hadn’t been for Marje ; 
she has smoothed things over down-stairs. The 
family know we have had a row, but they don’t 
know how serious it is. You see he didn’t say 
** Good-night,” but “ Good-bye.” I know he’ll never 
speak to me again. What shall I do ? Oh I Bob, I 
love you so ; you are cruel. 

I suppose I’ll get used to it in time, it’s four days 

now since it happened. I even Oh ! I might 

as well tell you everything — I even wrote to Bob ex- 
plaining everything, and begging him to forgive me, 
and — it’s humiliating to confess it, G.G.C., but he sent 
the letter back, he hadn’t even opened it. 

You see he’s through with me ; I’ve got to face 
facts. I suppose I’ll realize it properly in a day or 
two, now it just seems like a nightmare, and I can’t 
help feeling I shall wake up soon, but I know I 
shan’t. 

Well, good-bye, G.G.C. ; I must wash my face and 
go down-stairs to dinner. I can’t let the family see 
how much I mind. Oh, Bob ! and it does seem so 
silly, for I don’t love anybody but you. 


CHAPTER XL 


PLAYED WITH AND THROWN AWAY 

I didn’t think there could be anything more 
dreadful happen to me than what has already, but it 
^eems there could. I suppose I had better tell you 
about it, great-grandchildren, since I’m giving you 
the whole story ; perhaps, too, it will teach you never 
to love or trust a man as your great-grandmother was 
fool enough to do. Oh, I’m not crying, you needn’t 
think I am. I’d scorn to cry for a thing like he is. 
And Ida, too I To think she’s been fooling me for 
weeks, maybe months. She knew I loved him. Oh, 
it was cruel of her, and I used to tell her all about 
him. I suppose she was laughing up her sleeve at 
me. 

And to think I went in and sympathized with her 
and — I suppose she thought I’d never know. I sup- 
pose I shouldn’t have either if I hadn’t gone in night 
before last. I thought all along it was Lance, but I 
suppose she only used him for a blind. I expect you 
can guess what is coming, can’t you, great-grand- 
children ? It’s horrible and hateful and vile and — 
no, I can’t say it, but I found Bob at Ida’s last night. 
And she went away with him. 

You needn’t be sorry for me. I’d scorn to grieve 
for him now, but oh ! why did he do it ? If he loved 


TIME DAY 


298 

her, why did he say he loved me ? Why did she let 
him ? Did they both use me for a blind, then, too ? 
It’s too humiliating to believe, but what else can I 
think ? Why are there such dreadful things in life ? 

I never dreamed it was like this. I suppose I sound 
rather complicated, G.G.C. I’m sorry, but my head 
aches so I don’t seem able to think straight. I’ll try 
to tell you connectedly. You see her husband is 
dead. Ida killed him, accidentally of course — at 
least, I thought so at the time, now I’m not so sure. 
Oh, Thyme, what am I saying ? Of course it was I 
an accident. I mustn’t be wicked even if she has j 
spoilt my life. I 

I’m trying to explain, but even now it seems all 
nightmarish and confused to me. It’s three nights j 
ago now since he died. She rang up late, asking ' 
would one of us come in, as her husband was ill, and 
she didn’t know what to do. Dad went, and I in- 
sisted on going too. We found Ida as white as a 
sheet and terrified, and Mr. Lester lying fully dressed 
on his bed, breathing queerly. Dad telephoned for 
a doctor at once, and asked Ida why she hadn’t sent 
for one before, but he couldn’t get any sense out of 
her. All she would do was shiver and say in a dread- 
ful whisper, “ Is he going to die ? ” 

Once she caught hold of me, and her hands were 
like wet stones. Oh, Thyme,” she said, “ he’s dy- 
ing. I’ve killed him, and I wanted him to die,” and 
then she started shivering again. 

It was simply dreadful, and she wouldn’t let us 
take her away from him till he died. Then the doc- 


PLAYED WITH 


299 


tor carried her off to bed and smothered her in hot 
water-bags, and I and one of the maids sat up with 
her all night. We didn’t dare leave her alone ; she 
was almost mad. All she would say over and over 
was that she had killed him. In a way I suppose 
she had, for though he died of heart failure, what 
started it was an overdose. She used to drug him 
habitually when he was drunk — that s how she kept 
him quiet, but the doctor said, with his heart, she 
ought never to have done such a thing, but I suppose 
she didn’t know he had a weak heart. 

It was an awful night. She kept saying over and 
over they’d try her for murder and hang her. But 
anyway, perhaps because she accused herself so, it 
was all hushed up. I don’t know how ; perhaps dad 
had something to do with it. I don’t suppose he’d 
have liked me being dragged into a murder case any 
more than into a divorce. I don’t think I should have 
cared. I don’t think I’d care what happened now. 
Anyway, at the inquest they returned a verdict of 
heart disease. 

The night before last I still felt dreadfully worried 
about her— the maid told me in the morning she was 
still ill in bed, and I hadn’t seen her since that awful 
night— so I thought I’d slip across and see how she 
was. I picked her a huge bunch of violets; she 
loves them. I asked the maid who came to the 
door if she was any better, and she said she thought 
she was, a good deal, now. She said she was sure 
Mrs. Lester would not like me to go away without 
seeing her, she had had two visitors already that 


300 


TIME O’ DAY 


day, one gentleman had only just gone, she thought. 
She’d go and tell Mrs. Lester I was there. But I 
told her not to bother, Td just run up and peep in 
her room myself, and if she was asleep Fd leave the 
violets without waking her. 

I went up-stairs quietly, and on the top step I 
stopped and felt as if I turned to stone all over, for 
Ida’s bedroom door was open, and sitting on the bed 
with his arm round her was Bob. 

I suppose it’s a commonplace enough situation, 
and I oughtn’t have been so shocked, but — well, you 
see I loved him ; and, far-away great-grandchildren 
who may never be, if anything like that has ever 
happened to you, you’ll understand, and if it hasn’t 
you can’t. 

As soon as the first dreadful numbness went off I 
started to grope down-stairs again — I didn’t seem 
able to see — and as I went Bob’s voice followed me 
with the most hateful clearness. He said, ‘‘You poor 
darling, of course I’ll take you away.” 

There doesn’t seem much more to say, does there? 
And then I remembered that check that was signed 
“ R. H. Gale.” I see why Ida was so anxious to con- 
vince me it was her husband’s. But I can’t under- 
stand it even now. Perhaps it’s because my head 
aches so I can’t think, but why should they both try 
to keep me in the dark ? And, if he loved Ida, why 
did he ask me to marry him, I wonder — did I just 
attract him for the time being, and did he think he 
had gone so far he was bound to ask me, and was 
hoping all the time I’d refuse ? Perhaps that’s why 


PLAYED WITH 


301 

he was so angry about Max. Perhaps he was glad 
of the excuse to get out. 

I think I shall die if that’s what it was, but it isn’t 
true. I can’t think it’s true. He did love me. 
And yet how could he have when he’s gone away 
with her so soon ? He took her away — I watched 
them out of my window late last night ; they went 
away in a taxi together. She left a note for me say- 
ing she had made up her mind to go away as sud- 
denly as she does all things, she couldn’t bear the 
house any longer, and she would write to me as soon 
as she was settled again. I showed the note to the 
family, and mother said she was glad she had gone, 
and she hoped I’d take a lesson by my narrow escape 
from publicity and pay more attention in future to 
her opinion in my friendships. Ah, well ! I’m glad 
they’ve gone too, only they’ve taken my heart and 
all my faith in life with them. 

And yet things go on just the same. I am making 
myself a new frock, and dad tells us all his parlia- 
mentary rows, and people come to dinner, and I 
have to meet Max and Gordon and Dolly Lawrance 
and Lottie, and nothing seems to have happened to 
any of them. I can’t believe it’s real at times that 
other people’s lives are going on as usual when 
mine’s in ruins. 

It’s almost funny about Max too. I believe he’s 
falling in love with Marjoram. He has apologized 
about the other night too (it seems a thousand nights 
ago), and asked can he do anything to put it straight. 
I thanked him and said no. I tried to be nice, but I 


TIME O’ DAY 


302 

couldn’t even feel grateful. I don’t seem to feel any- , 
thing now except a big weariness. I couldn’t even ii 
be angry when I found out it was little Mrs. Haste I 
who stage-managed his entrance so opportunely. 
He mentioned innocently enough that it was she 1 
who told him I was in the garden ; she must have 
watched Bob and me go. What’s the use of being 
angry — perhaps she did me a good turn after all. i 
If Bob had not broken with me maybe I shouldn’t 
have found out about him and Ida till after we were ^ 
married. That would have hurt worse, wouldn’t it, 
though I don’t believe it could. 

And the awful part is that I can’t tell any one the 
real reason it is all off between us, not even Maida. 
Everybody just knows we’ve quarreled, and I leave 
it at that. Perhaps it’s absurd pride on my part. I 
think I could share anything but this with Maida, 
but even to her I can’t confess I’ve been made a fool 
of — just played with and thrown away. He’s only ^ 
been playing with you. Thyme ; you’ve got to re- 
member he never loved you. 

I passed him in the street to-day — it’s the first ! 
time I’ve seen him since I saw him from my window ! 
go away with Ida — and somehow when I actually 
came face to face with him again it didn’t seem it 
could be true, although I’d seen them with my own 
eyes. Of course he doesn’t know I know. We 
bowed and passed. He looked cold and judging, 
and I could have laughed : to think he dares to ac- 
cuse me of deceit — he who has deceived me twice as 
badly and in cold blood too ! It’s enough to make 


PLAYED WITH 


303 


one laugh, isn’t it ? I try to see the funny side of it, 
only somehow it hurts too much. I wish I had more 
pride. 

I got a letter from Ida this morning, but I didn’t 
read it. I tore it into a thousand tiny pieces and 
stamped on them. I suppose it was childish and 
small, but at the sight of her writing I felt so sud- 
denly bitter I could have torn her in pieces instead 
of her letter if she had been here. The impudence 
of the woman to dare to write to me after what she 
has done I I should like to tell her I know of her 
treachery, but I wouldn’t lower myself to let her see 
she has the power to affect me at all. I hope I never 
set eyes on her again. Oh, Bob, Bob, — Bob 


CHAPTER XLI 


MAX AND MARJORAM 

I AM SO tired, so very tired. I never would have 
believed three weeks could go so slowly — they 
haven't even crawled. Time has been standing still 
all the days and slipping away double rates when 
I was asleep. Three weeks I I think it is three 
whole lives. If only I could leave off loving him I I 
don't cry any more now—I don't think I have any 
tears left — and anyway I don't seem to feel enough 
to want to. I'm just tired of everything. I suppose 
in time I'll get over it, but I feel so strange and old. 
Every time I go to the glass it seems I ought to find 
my hair gone white, but it hasn't. 

I don't look a bit different. I haven't grown thin 
or got circles under my eyes. I haven't even lost my 
appetite, not much. I don't sound broken-hearted, 
do I ? But you can't live grief every minute of the 
day even if you are. I suppose the blatant every- 
dayness of things and other people to whom nothing 
has happened make you shamed ; it doesn't seem 
decent to spoil their fun going round showing your 
sores. 

I suppose there is some change about me though, 
for the family treat me quite differently : they have 
stopped teasing and preaching at me— mother even 


MAX AND MARJORAM 


305 

told Betty to hold her tongue the other day when 
she started asking why Bob didn’t come now. But 
to think I’ve got to live through another three weeks, 
and another, and another — I daren’t let myself think 
about it, or my courage fails. 

Still, like all clouds, my misery has one sunny 
spot in it. Marje’s happiness is going to come out 
of it, I think, and I’m so glad. Oh, yes, I can feel 
enough to be glad of that. I was right. Max really 
is falling in love with her — in fact, he’s fallen. I 
don’t know what Petermac will say; he’s away at 
present. But Max is perfectly happy. I knew one 
girl would be as good to him as another, and I have 
to smile when I see them together even if it’s on the 
wrong side of my mouth. 

Men are pretty vain, and there aren’t many, except 
a few obstinate ones, who’ll go on loving a girl they 
know doesn’t care for them, and I killed Max’s affec- 
tion for me stone dead when I screamed out that I 
hated him, and then Marjoram flew out as he was 
going away sore and sulky, and played the sweet 
reconciling angel, and tried to exculpate me and 
soothe him at the same time, and I suppose it was 
like a scented breeze after my storm of temper. He 
just wondered how he’d never realized before what a 
dear Marjoram was and what a brick of a sister. 
Oh, if Marje’s shielding me hadn’t been spontaneous, 
like the sweet old sausage she is, it would have been 
the cleverest line she could have taken. 

For I’m pretty sure now it’s been Max all along, 
and my guess was right. I suppose there’s going to 


TIME O’ DAY 


306 

be a second broken engagement in our family. Poor 
old Petermac ! But I expect he^ll weather it ; he’s 
not very sentimental. But, if she did care, it must 
have been hard for her to have me get letters like 
I did, but that was why she always cared to read 
them. What a hard time girls do have; you can’t 
show you like a man if he doesn’t like you, can you ? 

I suppose it’s hard on Petermac too, her taking him 
when she didn’t care and throwing him over — at 
least I think she’ll throw him over, but it’s not alto- 
gether her fault. A girl must marry some one, and 
a man has the whole world to choose from when he 
wants a wife — at any rate, the whole world of his 
acquaintance — but a girl can only choose from among J 
the limited number of men who want her. 

I have to laugh, though, at the completeness of ,1 
his cure. He has absolutely no opinion of me at all, 
though he’s nice to me for Marje’s sake, and since 
he isn’t worried by damaged feelings he can afford , 
to be magnanimous. I could forgive him too if I 
could have Bob back. And the even funnier part 
is I don’t care a bit. How I’ve changed, G.G.C. ! 
Once I couldn’t bear to lose any man’s admiration, 
however little interest I really took in him ; but now : 
I don’t want anybody but Bob, Bob, Bob. 

It’d be ever so much worse if it wasn’t for Gordon. 
He has been such a dear ; I can’t imagine life with- 
out him now. I wonder what I would have done if 
I had married Bob, for Bob — my Bob — would be a 
jealous husband, and allow me none other gods but 
him. But it’s no use thinking about what might 


MAX AND MARJORAM 


307 


have been, only you can’t help it at times. You get 
dreamy when you sit by the fire — it’s so warm and 
(drowsy — and when you stare hard at the flames they 
somehow seem so unreal and flickery that you see 
all the pictures of the things you know never could 
happen. I’m getting sentimental. 

We’re nearly all home to-night. Dad’s reading the 
paper, with the flames making the funniest spots on 
his bald patch ; Marje is darning stockings ; Ada’s 

I doing some kindergarten stuff ; and even Fred is 
sewing — he’s mending his braces. Fred’s frightfully 
rough on braces. He bursts a pair nearly as soon 
as he buys them, and he won’t let any of us girls fix 
them for him; he says we don’t sew them firmly 
enough. But he’ll be going up-stairs presently to 
his room to stew. Fred wants to finish this year, and 
he is really doing a bit of work for once in his life. 
We can’t get over the marvel of it; he’s refusing 
dances and parties galore to stay home and stew. 

' But one good thing, it’s keeping him away from 
I that girl of his too. I don’t think he’s quite as keen 
,on her, though, as he used to be, but I don’t really 
j know ; of course none of us can ask about it it s 
not our business, and he’d pretty soon point it out. 

I They think I’m writing letters. They don’t know 
I I’m describing them to you, do they, G.G.C. ? I dare 
I say Gordon will be along presently ; he generally 
' drops in some time of the day to see how I’m get- 
: ting on. We went to Manly again last evening. I 
I love that place, and so does he. It always seems 
sort of adventurous to me, as if things could happen 


TIME DAY 


308 

there, and Gordon feels just the same. We both like 
to sit there and watch the crowd. Gordon says he,! 
never tires of faces ; they are the pages in a book 
that is always writing, an eternal cinematograph, 
film, only more wonderful. He said last night : 

“You know. Thyme, the more you study them 
the more you see ; there’s always something old in 
a new face and something new in the oldest. But 1 
hate being with the crowd — going with them. 1 1 
like to stand aside and watch it sweep on. I hate to , 
be one of them. It’s not pride, not that, but if I do 
I lose my sense of aloofness, and I like best to look 
on at life. I like being a lone hand and I like being! 
alone. It’s a wonderful feeling. Have you ever 
been quite alone. Thyme — really absolutely alone ? ” 

“ No,” I answered, “ I don’t think I have. I think 
I’d be afraid.” 

“ It is a bit frightening at the beginning, until you j 
begin to merge yourself in the silence round and for- 
get your own being.” He locked his hands behind 
his head and stared up at the stars. I love Gordon 
when he thinks to himself aloud. 

“ I think,” he went on, “ the time I best realized , 
what aloneness meant was one night in the west — I 
one Saturday night. The others had gone to the 
township over Sunday, and I wouldn’t go — I had one 
of my moods. I was sorry when night came. You 
can’t realize how beautiful and how desolate the 
bush can be at night with you the only human in it ; 
it makes you feel the insignificant intruder man is. 
Somehow the silence round you seems noisier than 


MAX AND MARJORAM 


309 

mere noise, and the more you cower in your tent and 
hide from it the louder and more menacing it grows. 

‘‘ I couldn’t sleep. I was worn out, we’d been fell- 
ing trees all day, and even thought was oppressive. 
I don’t think I ever felt such rush of gratitude toward 
anything as I did to the possums I heard careering 
about my tent in the small hours of the morning. 
They seemed to bring a human note back into the 
threatening quietude. I almost blessed them as they 
frolicked about my ridge-pole, now and then saying 
‘ Chut, chut ’ in a queer little way. Then as dawn 
began to turn in her bed, before waking, I heard 
some boodie rats squeaking. Then a rustle would 
rise through the trees, and presently the whop, whop, 
of a kangaroo, and once the patter of a dingo’s feet 
as he came up to the soak for a drink.” 

Gordon stopped, his voice had grown, not sing- 
songy, but sort of cadenced. 

“ It’s on me,” he said, the wander spirit. I’m 
afraid I’m one of those who have to go, go, go till 
they drop. It’s stifling me here again. I’ll have to 
get out, just talking of it makes me eager ; but how 
can you understand the smell of the earth and the 
way she calls ? ” 

** Oh, Gordon,” I said unhappily, ” whatever shall 
I do without you ? But,” I went on, trying to crush 
down my selfishness, “ of course if you feel like that 
you’ll have to go. I knew something was on your 
mind, you’ve been so different lately.” 

“ Have I ? ” said Gordon with a funny little smile. 

‘‘Why don’t you go?” I said, rising to perfect 


TIME O’ DAY 


310 

heights of altruism. “ There’s nothing to keep you 
really, your mother doesn’t need you, she doesn’t 
understand you. I think she lives in a state of per- 
petual dread of what you will do or say next. And 
especially now Max is back ; he says he means to 
stay in Sydney now for good. You see, Gordon, 
there’s nothing to keep you.” 

“No,” Gordon agreed with the same queer smile, 
“ there’s nothing to keep me.” 

“ It isn’t that I shan’t miss you frightfully,” I ex- 
plained, “ but I hate to see you fretting. Why don’t 
you go?” 

Gordon laughed. 

“ I would to-morrow,” he said, “ except ** 

“ Except what ? ” I asked. 

“ Oh, just except,” said Gordon. 

But he looked at me so strangely. G.G.C., do 
you think “ except ” could possibly mean me ? Are 
the others right after all ? 

Well, I am conceited. 


CHAPTER XLII 


GORDON INTERVENES 

Dolly Lawrance is still being nasty to me, she 
doesn’t know there’s no need for it now. It makes 
me laugh at times, her spite is so transparent ; even 
being miserable hasn’t blunted my sense of humor, 
you see. I daren’t let go my habit of laughing at 
life ; habit, after all, is more of a support than re- 
ligion in a crisis. 

Dolly’s silliness, you know, comes in saying such 
absurdly, impossibly, untrue things that no one could 
be taken in by them for a minute. The sort of thing 
like yesterday. In front of a crowd of friends, who 
were remarking what a jolly time we must have had 
down at Thirroul, Dolly broke in : 

“ Thyme enjoyed it right enough ; I lent her one 
of my cast-offs to amuse herself with.” 

As if any one would believe that about me I 

They only laughed, her spite was so obvious, but 
it’s funny how blind some girls can be to the ridicule 
their nastiness brings them, isn’t it ? 

Of course nobody outside the family and Maida 
knows for sure there was anything serious between 
Bob and me ; outwardly we’re just as good friends. 
We meet fairly often, and we’re just charming to 
each other when we do. It’s funny how little, after 
all, intimacy consists in the things other people can 


TIME DAY 


312 

see. No one would have known from our behavior 
before that we were more than friends, and no one 
could tell by the same token that we are anything less. 

Oh, yes ! we are intensely civil to each other, and 
at Carsons’ last week we even had a dance together. 
A dance, G.G.C., I nearly screamed at the absurdity 
of it ; a month ago he would have filled half my pro- 
gramme. I wondered first would he ask me, it was 
the first dance we’d met at since our break, but Bob 
would never make a girl conspicuous by omission, 
even if he would not be quite so punctilious in com- 
mission. His manner was calm and polite as he 
came up, among several others, and asked if he 
might have the pleasure. 

I nodded and gave him my programme ; I didn’t 
dare trust my voice, and he handed it back with his 
name on one line. Just one ! Oh, there’s lots of 
humor in life if you look for it. We danced it 
solidly through from beginning to end, and then sat 
in the ballroom till the music started again. No 
going out for us now on the lawn, or wandering up 
and down the paths too happy even to talk. 

Oh, no ! we kept the conversation going as if we 
were newly introduced. We talked about the deco- 
rations, the floor, the people, the theatre ; I racked 
my brains so that there should be no tiniest hitch for 
a minute to let us realize the ridiculousness of it, or 
I should have had hysteria. I was really brilliant, 
and Bob was polished attention itself ; to outsiders 
we must have seemed to be thoroughly enjoying 
ourselves, and not one word did we say on the sub- 


GORDON INTERVENES 


3*3 

ject that was like a ghost in front of our eyes the 
whole time. 

And after waltzing a dozen bars of the next dance 
I swept my partner — I don^t even remember who he 
was — out under Bob^s nose into the open, teasing 
and tantalizing and provoking him brazenly. I sup- 
pose it was vile of me, but if you knew how sore I 
felt — I never thought it would keep on hurting like 
this. I thought Fd forget in time, but every day it 
seems to grow worse and worse. Perhaps what 
rankles more than despising him is knowing he 
despises me ; it’s so horribly unfair ; and yet it’s just 
that that drives me on to behave so as to make him 
despise me more. When he’s about it’s as if I had 
a fever or something inside me pricking me on to 
be reckless. He left me because he thought me an 
unworthy flirt, like himself, and ever since Fve been 
really justifying his opinion. I know it. Fve been 
flirting like mad ; I just don’t seem to care. Now I 
understand how it is women with no hearts make 
most havoc among men. In a way it wasn’t me ; it 
seemed as if I stood by like a casual spectator and 
watched Thyme O’Dea behaving outrageously with 
a cynical sort of amusement. 

And yet, in spite of it all, I can’t help thinking he 

cares still. If it wasn’t for Ida I wonder why 

she is not with him ; she is in Victoria because I had 
another letter from her with a Melbourne postmark. 
I suppose it was to ask me why I hadn’t answered 
her first letter. I tore it up as well. I don’t under- 
stand it, but I hate her more than ever, for in spite 


314 time day I 

of whatever hold she has on Bob it’s me he really 
loves. i 

At the Hyleses’ dance he tried to make it up. That 
was two nights ago. After our dignified duty dance 
he hesitated the fraction of a second, as the last sing 
of the fiddles died away and left us beside an open : 
door. It did look enticing outside ; they had all the 
veranda shut in with red and white blinds and big 
palms, and cunning little seats for the discreet, while, 
if you were bolder, the gleaming gravel paths and 
moon-nickeled chrysanthemums and laurel hung out 
a simply irresistible invitation. 

Bob looked down at me with the old smile in his 
eyes, a bit haggard from resurrection, and rather 
doubtful, but still the old smile. ** Shall we go out- 
side ? ” he said slowly. 

I know he was going to ask me to forgive him. I 
suppose he’s ashamed of his suspicions now, for he 
can’t help noticing I’m never with Max, who looks 
very cheerful and was dancing half the night at 
Hyleses’ with Marje. But I don’t know what it was, 
perhaps the phrasing, the casual “ Shall we ? ” not 
“ Will you ? ” — it’s hard to tell, such tiny things turn 
the scales sometimes, don’t they ? I felt that if I lis- 
tened to him for long perhaps I’d forget my pride 
and reproach him, and I’d die first. Besides, what’s 
the use of excusing his cruelty about Max? There’s 
always his worse treachery with Ida, and I couldn’t 
speak of that, I just couldn’t. | 

But I didn’t want him to think I was afraid to talk | 
alone with him, so I thought I’d give a careless laugh ^ 


GORDON INTERVENES 315 

and say, “ Oh, if you like, it doesn’t matter to me.” 
All this flashed through my head in less than a second 
as he stood waiting for my answer, and instead I 
found myself saying in a voice that didn’t seem to 
belong to me, ‘‘ Thanks, but really I’ve been out so 
much to-night I’m getting chilly ; I think, if you don’t 
mind. I’d sooner stop inside.” 

I don’t know what made me for I did mean to listen 
to what he had to say ; perhaps if I had he’d have 
explained about Ida. You fool. Thyme, as if he could 
ever explain away what you saw with your own eyes. 

But even then Bob persisted, to my surprise. He 

said, in a queer sort of voice, ‘‘ But, Thyme, I ” 

and then those hateful violins tumpty-squeaked again, 
and Lottie darted past, the perspiring Dave in tow, 
exclaiming, “ This is an extra,” and Gordon was at 
my elbow saying, “Ours, Thyme?” He didn’t see 
Bob, who had been bumped back by some of the 
couples. I couldn’t protest aloud and ask to be left 
with Bob, could I ? So off Gordon one-stepped me 
in the middle of his speech. I could have cried ; in 
fact I was all but crying ; and Gordon, after one look 
at my face, whisked me out to the veranda. He 
snuggled me down in a chair behind a palm, and sat 
down himself so as to block the view on the other 
side. 

I clenched my hands tight. I would not cry and 
make a sight of myself, and I took deep breaths stub- 
bornly till at last they stopped sobbing up in my 
throat. Gordon looked quite worried, but he didn’t 
ask any questions, like the dear he always is. As 1 


TIME O’ DAY 


316 


got quieter his face cleared and he took one of my 
hands and patted it. 

It^s all right/^ I said brokenly, as soon as I could 
talk, ** it was only Bob.” 

“ Has he been rough with you ? ” Gordon said 
sharply and frowned. 

“ No-o,” I said. “ He — he was trying to make it 
up.” 

Well ? ” said Gordon. 

“ You took me away,” I explained. ‘‘ Oh, please 
don^t talk about it.” I gave a final dab at my eyes 
with my hanky and sat up. 

Gordon never said anything for a minute and then 
only one word, but it contained apology and com- 
miseration and every kind of sympathy; he said, 
“ Damn I ” and as if he meant it. It comforted me 
somehow. 

** Never mind,” I said. ** I’m glad you did, because 
I hate him.” 

“ You don’t,” Gordon retorted with his usual blunt- 
ness. “You love him, but I don’t see — meddlers as 
a rule don’t do much good.” 

“ Don’t be so silly,” I said, with an attempt at a 
smile as we rose to go in. The smile was rather a 
failure so I tried again, and Gordon said it was an 
improvement. “ It doesn’t matter.” 

Doesn’t matter, G.G.C. ! But Gordon still looked 
thoughtful as he went away. I wonder — oh, but he 
can’t do anything, no one can help. Ida will always 
stand between us, I can never forget her. Only I 
can’t forget Bob either, that’s the worst of it. 


CHAPTER XLIII 


OUT OF HER LIFE 

Oh I aren’t men stupid ? I could shake Gordon, 
and it’s only more vexing that he meant to do me a 
good turn. And it might have come off too if luck 
hadn’t been against me. You see, I think if I could 
really see Bob alone he would forgive me, and he 
might explain about Ida. I believe he’s sorry he’s 
broken so utterly with me ; but I’d better explain 
what Gordon did. It was kind of him to try, and 
it might have come off, you know, though as it 
happens it’s made things worse than ever. I do hope 
Bob doesn’t think I had anything to do with the plot 
or I should die of shame. 

Gordon of course swears it’s all my imagination 
and there was no plot at all, but, as I pointed out to 
him, I wasn’t born yesterday. 

It was the night before last, Gordon came round 
as we were finishing dinner, and said : 

‘‘I’ve come to take you to the Criterion, old girl, 
so dash up-stairs and undress ” — Gordon always calls 
evening clothes undress. “I heard this morning 
they’ve got rather a decent show on, and one of the 
staff had booked seats for to-night but found he 
couldn’t go, so I took them from him. I say, Thyme,” 
he called after me, “ put on that blue frock of yours, 
the indecent shiny one.” 


TIME O* DAY 


318 

‘‘ My new charmeuse/' I said, stopping, to the 
theatre ? What on earth for, Gordon, it will crush 
it so ; won’t an older one do ? ” 

“No, it won’t,” he retorted. “ Why am I not en- 
titled to your decent frocks, because I happen to knowi 
you well ? You put that one on when I tell you.” I 

It was all done so casually, and he had never said; 
a word about Bob for more than a week, that I neven 
suspected anything. I obediently wriggled into the' 
charmeuse, the only way to get into it is to wriggle 
and wriggle, and all of a sudden there you are, and 
it fits like polish. I look better in it than any frock 
I’ve ever had in my life, Gordon says, because it is 
itself nearly as wicked as me. But that night when I 
looked in the glass I couldn’t resist a grimace, I 
looked as white as a ghost. Blue is so trying unless 
you have a color. I generally have, but I suppose 
the long weariness of the weeks is telling at last. So 
I dabbed a spot of rouge on each cheek and ex- 
amined the effect with a hand-mirror. It was the 
last finishing touch, and you couldn’t tell it wasn’t 
natural. 

I walked daintily down-stairs ; high-heeled slippers 
and a perfect frock make you feel dainty. And I felt 
so happy I could have sung, goodness knows why, 
because if it was a premonition it didn’t come off. On 
the last step I halted and posed. 

“ Well ? ” I demanded. 

“ By crumbs ! ” Gordon said involuntarily, and 
another word would have been superfluous. 

“ We’ll knock them,” he said encouragingly as we 


OUT OF HER LIFE 


319 


went up the stairs, and we sailed in chattering and 
insolently absorbed in each other. I felt equal to any- 
Ithing ; there’s nothing like a good dress to sustain 
you, it’s better than a good reputation ; and so, 
though I hadn’t expected it, it didn’t give me the least 
bit of a shock to see Bob sitting two rows behind us 
a little to the left, where he had a splendid view of 
us. Gordon got those seats accidentally ? Don’t you 
Relieve it for a minute. I’m sure the dear old schemer 
fixed it up with Dave Davenport, he was there with 
iBob ; they had no girls with them ; they are dears, 
even if it did fall through. 

We turned round and gave Bob and Dave the 
nicest smiles, and then became reabsorbed in each 
other. I felt so excited I had to talk, no matter what 
I said, and half the dress-circle stopped gossiping to 
sneer at (and envy) our animation. 

And when the lights were down and the play 
going on, Gordon would bend right up to my ear and 
whisper occasionally, and I would nod and look 
straight ahead, as if I were embarrassed. His re- 
marks were perfect commonplaces, but Bob couldn’t 
tell that. 

At the first interval Dave got up to come and talk 
to us, so Bob had to come too, it would have looked 
pointed for him to stay away by himself in front of 
everybody. The conspirators were, of course, simply 
wrapped up in each other from the first, and Bob had 
to talk to me. We both talked furiously ; there’s 
nothing like a few score eyes and opera-glasses fo- 
cused on you to make you toe the line, but I felt my 


320 


TIME DAY 



cheeks getting hotter and hotter till I don't believij 
I needed the rouge at all. 

The second interval, before the curtain was fairly 
down, Bob got up and fled outside, he wasn’t going 
to be let in for a second dose of Thyme O’Dea, that 
was evident, and Dave had to go out with him, in 
his turn. 

But it wasn’t till the play was over that Gordon 
really sprung his mine. Just before the curtain fell, 
a note was brought him, and, as the lights went up 
and we got into our wraps, Dave and he manoeuvred 
so that we were all together, and we all had to chat 
again for a moment. Bob did that pleasantly 
enough ; as I told you before he would never mark; 
out a girl by treating her stiffly, however much he 
hated her. 

And Gordon sprung the mine. 

“ I’m in a frightful hole,” he said abruptly ; “ this 
note’s from the office, and I’ve to go straight off to 
a murder case somewhere beyond Chatswood. I’ve 
just time to catch the last train if I tear. I must go 
as I am. I can’t possibly see you home. Thyme ; I 
was going to pack you off in a taxi by yourself, but 
perhaps Dave or Mr. Gale will look after you for 
me.” 

Of course, both the men had to say they were de- 
lighted, and Gordon shot off saying : 

“ Well, that takes a weight off my mind. Fright- 
fully sorry. Thyme, see you to-morrow. Good-bye, 


all.” 


And as Gordon disappeared, Dave said ; 


OUT OF HER LIFE 


321 

“ Well, ril go down and see about a taxi; you two 
can follow.” 

It was a clever scheme, wasn’t it ? Dave would 
have somehow faded away, I’m sure, and if Bob and 

I had to go home alone in a taxi I wonder if 

I’d have forgiven him. But fate was against me. 
At that second the Lawrances saw fit to descend 
upon us in a body, Mrs. Lawrance, Dolly, and Dr. 
Philip. Dolly gushed all over us. 

“ Do let us drive you both home,” she said ; 
“there’s plenty of room in our car, isn’t there, 
Philip ? ” 

“ Plenty,” Dr. Philip agreed in his distant cordial 
way, “ that is, if it suits Miss O’Dea. But Copper 
may ” 

“ Of course it will suit Thyme,” the little snake 
broke in sweetly. “ We pass her door on the way, 
and we can drop Bob after. Come along.” 

What could we do ? Neither Bob nor I could pro- 
test and ask to be left to go by ourselves in a taxi, 
could we ? And Dolly fastened herself to Bob’s side, 
and made him sit next to her going home. I could 
have cried, and that made me say good-night as 
icily as could be when I got out ; I was so afraid of 
my voice quivering. At our gate he half rose as if 
to see me up to the door, but Dr. Philip was up be- 
fore him, and Dolly said : 

“ It’s all right, Philip’s going.” 

I guess Fate has got her knife into me for some 
reason or another, for that’s the dead finish ; there’s 
little chance of our ever coming together again 


322 


TIME O’ DAY 


now. It’s doubtful if we’ll ever even meet, for Bob’s 
gone back to Melbourne for good, and his brother 
has come to take over the Sydney branch, as he told 
me might happen. Dr. Philip told me all about it 
when we were out motoring together yesterday. 

So it’s no use hoping any more that things may 
come right. I thought I realized all the time I had 
lost him, but somehow I suppose I didn’t, for I never 
felt like I do now. While he was here there was 
always just the chance that some day it all might be 
explained, and, at any rate, I could see him some- 
times, and hear about him, and what he was doing. 

But now it will be just as if he were dead. He’s 
gone right away out of my life, and perhaps he’ll 
meet some girl in Melbourne and marry her, and I 
may never even hear of it. Perhaps some old girl 
friend may catch him on the rebound while he is still 
sore with me — lots of men are married that way. 
And I can do nothing, just nothing. It’s heart- 
breaking to feel yourself impotent when it means so 
much to you. 

Oh, great-grandchildren I I’m the most miserable 
girl in the world, but it’s no use whimpering. 

Oh ! I’ve no shame. I don’t even care about 
Ida now. I think if he came back I’d forgive him. 

I’d never even mention her name to him I 

wonder. I don’t believe he really loves her ; even 
though she’s in Melbourne too. I can’t believe he’s 
gone back to her, and yet it’s torture to think he 
might have. You see, I shan’t know if he does or 
doesn’t. He might be with her now. I may say I 


OUT OF HER LIFE 


323 


won’t believe it is true, but that won’t alter the fact 
if he is. Oh ! Bob, Bob, if you would only write to 
me, only tell me you still care. He’s treated me 
! shamefully, but — I love him. There’s nothing to 
say after that, is there? 

Oh, well, I suppose I may as well go to bed. 


CHAPTER XLIV 


THE HIGHEST BIDDER 

I DON^T think things are going quite as smoothly 
as before with Vane and Ada. Not that I know 
anything definite yet, Micky wouldn^t give his pal 
away, and Ada's not the sort to talk either, but I’m 
sure something is worrying her; she’s been looking 
heavy-eyed lately once or twice. I fancy his letters 
are getting irregular. I wonder if it’s the pretty 
daughter Micky mentioned? It’s a good many 
months now since they met, and at that age you 
can’t expect constancy, but I’m afraid Ada does; she 
takes things so seriously, and I’m so afraid she’s go-' 
ing to be hurt. 

You see, she is so open and aboveboard. She is! 
cold and hard to win, but once she gives her affec- 
tion to any one she is as faithful as can be, and I 
don’t believe she could play hot and cold to save 
her life. With men of her own sort that might be 
all right, but Vane is a fish who wants playing. I 
know his kind, but I’m afraid Ada lets him see she 
cares in return. 

This apparently is the beautiful result, red eyes for 
Ada. If I could get my fingers on the brat I’d make 
him sorry for himself. If Ada turned cold now, and 
hurt his self-complacence, I dare say she could hold 
him still, but I daren’t give her any advice. She’d fly 


THE HIGHEST BIDDER 


325 

out at me most probably, besides, it's cheek offering 
advice when it isn't asked for, but Ada is so young. 
When I was her age I was as old as old could be. 
It's strange two sisters can be so different, isn't it ? 

But I would like her to be happy. Somehow 
when all the joy has gone out of your own life you 
realize just how much it is worth. Marje and Max 
seem to be getting on famously ; she broke off her 
engagement with Petermac last week — I must say 
he took it well — and I think they are really engaged, 
she and Max, I mean, but, of course, they don't an- 
nounce it yet a while, it wouldn't be decent so soon 
after Petermac. 

Mother is very vexed about it, though. In fact, 
she's angry with the whole family all round. I'm 
sure she's furious I've lost Bob, although she doesn't 
say anything. I can tell by the way she treats me. 
I can't help feeling sorry for her, she is so proud and 
ambitious, and it must be maddening to have such 
cantankerous daughters. It's vexing enough for her 
about me, but to have Marje on top — for, of course, 
Max is nothing like the match Petermac would have 
been. Still, it's no use her saying anything there. 
Marje is like flint once she has made up her mind, 
and really it’s quite comforting to see one happy 
face about the house. But how I envy her I 

Now shut up. Thyme, you mustn’t hold the floor 
too long with your sorrows. We all adore good 
listeners, because we all like to talk about ourselves, 
and only listen to others talking because one must 
take turns, and so, when we meet any one who’s too 


TIME O’ DAY 


326 

lazy or too good-natured to take his, we feel as if he 
had given us a second help. 

I think ril go round to Maida’s again this after- 
noon. I've been there a lot lately. I spent all day 
yesterday with her, somehow she makes me feel so 
much better, even if we only talk about ordinary i 
things. Just the being with some one whom you 1 
love, and who loves you, gives one a feeling of rest ; 
and comfort, don't you think so ? 

When I went I was hating the world, I can't help 
getting moods like that occasionally, and I just lay ' 
on the sofa with my head in Maida’s lap, and talked i 
about Peterjohn, and Jack, and some bargains she i 
got at the sales, and Lottie’s and Dave’s engagement | 
— it came out Wednesday — and I felt quite myself j 
in half an hour, and was as cheerful as could be by j 
dinner. | 

I told the nurse I’d put Peterjohn to bed when the j 
pet came in from his walk, so I did, and Maida came 
and sat in the bedroom with me and criticized my 
method of bathing him. But when I retorted she 
could do it herself if she was dissatisfied, she 
promptly refused. | 

“ If you had as much of him as I do,” she said, j 
“ you wouldn’t be so anxious to deprive nurse of her I 
job. Besides, he hates me to bathe him, he always j 
yells. You haven’t much affection for your mother, 
have you, young man ? ” and she took him away i 
from me and cuddled him, but he howled dismally till 
she gave him back, and then he buried his nose in 
my back hair and grinned wickedly at her. Maida 


THE HIGHEST BIDDER 


327 


only laughed, and brushed the powder off her blouse ; 
she wasn’t a bit jealous, as some girls would have 
been, no matter how great friends we were. 

“ I think you’d better keep him, Timmy,” she said, 
” until he’s old enough to have some filial feeling. 
It’s quite evident he prefers you at present. But you 
really can handle him better than I. I always was a 
fool with babies. Do you remember when I first 
became engaged ” 

” I said how jolly it would be when you had a 
baby for us to play with,” I ended for her. 

** And I said I knew I should drop it,” Maida re- 
torted. ‘‘ I say, wouldn’t our children have fits if we 
told them by and by all we know about each other ? ” 

I “ Heavens I ” I said. ‘‘ But I’m afraid I’ll only be 
I maiden aunt to yours, Maida.” 

‘‘ Why, is it absolutely beyond hope of ” 

“ Absolutely,” I sighed. “ He’s gone back to Mel- 
bourne, and I’ve not had a line. No, it’s the finish.” 

Poor old kid.” Maida gave me a hug as we 
came out of the door, leaving Peterjohn busy with 
his bottle. ” But who will you have now, Timmy ? 
You must marry some one, you’re not cut out for an 
old maid. What about Dr. Philip ? ” 

I might,” I said wearily. “ I suppose one’s as 
good as another now, and that would please the 
family.” 

Maida just kissed me. 

But it did hurt after dinner to see her sitting on 
the arm of Jack’s chair ruffling up his hair. Of 
course, they don’t mind me. 


TIME O’ DAY 


328 

Ada has called out it’s six clock, so I’ll have to 
stop and get dressed before dinner. The Lawrances 
are taking me to Her Majesty’s to-night. I do hope 
it’s something funny. If it’s sentimental I believe I’ll 
howl, and that would never do in front of Dolly. I 
wonder, could I marry Dr. Philip ? He is much 
nicer than I used to think, and he would always be 
beautifully polite to his wife, and he’s well-off, and 
clever people make a fuss over him ; his wife would 
have a good time. And it isn’t a scrap of use my 
thinking any more about Bob. 

I’m afraid I’ll have to make up my mind soon. 
Mother wants me to have him ; he hasn’t asked me 
yet, but he will if I let him. Of course, she would 
never have brought the subject up herself, she is al- 
ways very polite with us, and doesn’t interfere, but 
that young imp of a Betty tackled me about it yes- 
terday in front of her and Fay. 

“ What are you going to do about Dr. Lawrance, 
Thyme ? ” she inquired bluntly. “ I hope you’re not 
going to let him slip through your fingers like you 
did Bob.” 

“ Hold your tongue, Betty,” I said flushing, “ and 
don’t be impudent.” 

All right,” she retorted. “ But if you dangle all 
the decent chances you get like this you’ll end up 
with a beggar like Gordon.” 

“ And if I do,” I said, furious with her, a kid of 
fourteen, talking to me like that, “ whose business is 
it but mine ? ” 

“ Be quiet, Betty,” mother said, in her gentle icy 


THE HIGHEST BIDDER 329 

way, as she opened her lips for some more cheek. 

Of course, Thyme, you know your own business 
best, young people always do. It is you who must 
live with your husband, so you had better choose 
him for yourself. Still, I can assure you,” she looked 
with a queer little smile at the diamonds on her 
smooth neck — I wish my neck was half as lovely as 
hers — “ there is something in what Betty says : 
poverty is by no means pleasant. Naturally, as your 
mother, and taking an interest in your welfare, I 
should wish to spare you as much unpleasantness as 
possible, but it is a common wish to buy our own 
wisdom.” 

“ Do you mean I should marry for money?” I de- 
manded bluntly. 

‘‘ That depends,” mother replied, “ on how much 
you want money. You have never felt the lack of it 
I yet. I hope you never may.” 

i “Then, since I have no brains to earn for myself, 
i I am to be put up at auction like a slave girl to the 
highest bidder,” I cried. 

Mother bent over the glove she was fastening in 
cold disapproval ; she says at times I’m vulgar. “ Not 
necessarily the highest,” she answered. ” You have 
already had some choice.” 

Oh I doesn’t it sound sordid, G.G.C. ? Now, let 
me tell you a lovely dream I’ve got. A nice little 
house, with an infinitesimal garden, of which we 
would know every grain of earth, where we’d grow 
our own cabbages and potatoes, and get, oh I so ex- 
I cited if the slugs ate up one little plant. The front 


330 


TIME O’ DAY 


plot should be all roses, and cosmos, and pansies, 
with the little sun-loving portulaccas bordering every 
bed, and a round, doll-size lawn, just big enough for 
two people to sit on at sunset, and watch two fat rosy 
babies (I will have twins, G.G.C., I adore twins) 
fighting each other, and rolling over like happy kit- | 
tens, and perhaps a roly-poly puppy to join the 
scramble. 

Then, after dinner (and to cook dinner for him 
would be quite different from any other dinners), 
when dark came, and the babies were in sleepy land, 
we’d sit in the window-seat and tell each other all our 
dearest thoughts, and half the time there would be no 
need to speak at all, for we should understand with- 
out it. Then I would smooth away all the worry 
wrinkles out of his forehead, and he would call me his : 
old wife-sweetheart — oh ! yes, and, as mother says, : 
the babies would be teething, or else have the 
measles or whooping-cough, and he would get short- i 
tempered if I burned the dinner in my hurry, and I 
would resent wearing mended gloves and shabby 1 
shoes. I wonder if I would, if it were for him? i 
Love alters one’s perspective, doesn’t it ? I haven’t i 
quite decided yet whether it puts one’s focus right or 
wrong ; that it alters it is certain. 

But there’s only one man in the world I could do 
that for, so, as I said about Marjoram a long while 
ago, if you can’t have the man you want you must 
have the man who wants you. 

I suppose I shall say Yes ” to Dr. Philip. 


CHAPTER XLV 


ADA AND MR. WYMONDHAM 

Fve been sewing all day putting buttons and 
hooks and tapes on clothes. The family are off to 
Cairns for a week or two ; when I say the family, I 
mean mum and dad, and Marje and Fay and Betty 
are going. It’s the Parliamentary recess, and dad 
thinks the tropical warmth will take down his fat a 
bit, that’s what Betty suggested would be one of the 
advantages when they talked it over. 

Dad only laughed in his jolly, comfortable old 
way, and said : “ All very well for you to make fun 
of your father, young woman, but you look out for 
yourself, you never know how you’ll end up. You’re 
the image of what your Aunt Emma was, at your 
age, and now she weighs fifteen stone.” 

But, anyway, they’ve decided to go, and have 
booked their passage ; crowds of our friends are go- 
ing too ; this is the fashionable time to escape the 
winter, not that you can complain of Sydney win- 
ters, as a rule. I’m sure they’re warm enough. But 
Marje has got a hankering for the canefields and the 
thunder of the Barron Falls, she’s mad on scenery, 
and Fay wants the officers on the boat, and mother’s 
going because every one else who’s anybody is go- 
ing — so there you are. 

Ada can’t get away from her kindergarten, and I 


332 


TIME DAY 


have to stop home and run the house. We can’t 
shut it up because of her and Fred. I don’t mind 
Fred, but I wish Ada wasn’t stopping home, I don’t 
like the responsibility of her ; she’s deep, and I’m 
sure there’s something up. For one thing she’s get- 
ting a sight too friendly with Mr. Wymondham, and, 
after what Bob and Gordon told me about him, I 
don’t like to see it. 

Several times lately I’ve noticed him in Ada’s 
vicinity, and she laughs and talks to him in an ex- 
cited sort of way, not at all like her usual stiff man- 
ner. I don’t like the look of it at all, but what can I 
do ? Ada won’t stand interference, but she is such 
a baby. I’d sooner it was Fay he had transferred 
his attentions to ; although she is only seventeen. 
Fay is quite capable of taking care of herself. I’m 
afraid she is like me, though I never feel flattered 
when people say so. But Ada, you know, trusts 
people, and it’s really not safe — not with Mr. 
Wymondham, anyway. 

I must just try and keep my eyes open, though 
I hate to play the spy, even in intent. But when 
you’ve got an inexperienced girl trying to soothe the 
hurt her pride has received from one man with the 
flatteries of another, and when that other is a scoun- 
drel, and plausible, and good-looking — well, you 
see. I’ve got to keep my eyes skinned, haven’t I ? 

It’s no use saying anything to mother. I did try, 
but she only looked at me with her inscrutable smile 
and said that Mr. Wymondham was extremely well- 
connected, and, perhaps, one of her girls might pos- 


ADA AND MR. WYMONDHAM 333 

sibly consider her family by making an advantageous 
marriage. 

“ But if he doesn’t mean to marry her,” I said 
bluntly, “ what then ? ” 

” I think,” mother replied coldly, “ I have brought 
up my girls to know how to behave. I trust them.” 

I’ll have to go and do some more sewing for the 
family presently. It’s marvelous how many things 
you find want doing to your clothes when you’re go- 
ing away. There’s a button here, a small tear there 
— about every ten minutes somebody puts a head 
round my door and calls for me. They’re going 
away to-morrow, and, as I’m the only one not busy 
with packing. I’ve got to play ladies’ maid to the lot. 

I’m going to dinner at the Lawrances’ to-morrow. 
Ada and Fred have been asked too. Mrs. Lawrance 
said that, as it would be our first night home by our- 
selves, we might feel lonely. It was dear of her to 
think of it, wasn’t it ? She is a sweet woman ; I’ll 
like her for a mother-in-law. They all seem to con- 
sider it a settled affair already ; Dr. Philip is quite 
possessive in his manner. 

Last night I met Bob’s brother there. He is so 
like Bob, the same coppery hair and eyes, but he 
can’t smile like him. He even has his little man- 
nerisms and turns of speech. I felt every now and 
then as if I were in a dream, and it was the night 
Bob and I met. I think a voice that is like one you 
care about hurts more than anything, for, if you only 
don’t look at the speaker, you can fancy it’s the 
other person. 


TIME O' DAY 


334 

He is very nice, though, and I talked to him all I 
could. I was pretending it was Bob, and it was 
lovely, too, to speak to some one who had lived and 
grown up with him, and spoken with him quite 
lately. But, of course, Dolly tried to get her knife 
into me as usual. 

** Thyme knows your brother awfully well, Stan,” 
she said as we were introduced. 

That doesn’t look so bad written, but the way 
Dolly said it made it sound all sorts of things, but 
Stan is like Bob, nothing disturbs his polite impas- 
sivity, and he just looked at me and said in the 
pleasantest frankest way : 

“ Do you ? ” It saved the situation for me, and I 
was able to smile back and say : ; 

“ Yes, I saw quite a lot of him when he was here ; i 
we stayed, together with Dolly, at Thirroul. How is 
he?” I felt a bit breathless inside, but I don’t think 
any one would have guessed it from my manner. 

“ I must tell him I’ve met you when I write,” he 
said as we moved apart. 

I wonder if he will. I wonder if Bob will care to 
hear. Has he forgotten me yet? I wonder what 
Stan would say if he had known he was being intro- 
duced to the girl who so very nearly was his sister- 
in-law. Heigho I what tiny things do alter your life. 

I think I’ll go outside and water the lawn, it’s so 
cold sitting still, and no one is calling for me at the 
present minute. Flowers make one feel happy some- 
how — ashamed of being bad-tempered, anyway ; they 
are always so smiling and fresh-colored and serene. 


ADA AND MR. WYMONDHAM 335 

I was watering a bed of petunias that had just been 
I planted a while ago, and I had great fun with one 
of the magpies. 

As soon as he saw me with the hose he came 
dancing and sidling up with squawks of anticipation 
for a bath ; but he was scared to come too close to 
me, and stood just out of range complaining to 
heaven of my uncharitableness, so I kindly lifted the 
hose higher and turned it on him, and you never 
saw such a happy mag in your life. He has a mania 
for baths, it’s the same one I rescued from the foun- 
tain the other day. He had no less than four solid 
wettings before he was satisfied, and between every 
two he ran off, looking like a wet rag, to sit on the 
hose by the tap and preen his feathers, chortling 
with joy. I think “ chortle ” seems just to describe 
a magpie’s noise. 

I do think it’s funny, the way birds crouch and 
fluff out their feathers and flap under a shower, and 
then get up and skitter off with bent legs and feathers 
almost trailing on the ground, for all the world like 
an old woman with her petticoats coming down. 

Oh I there they are calling for me again. I knew 
I shouldn’t be left long in peace. Oh I it’s only 
Betty. Well, she can just call ; but I suppose I’d 
better close up now all the same, it’s nearly dinner 
time. 

Good-bye, G.G.C. I 


CHAPTER XLVI 

DR. PHILIP PROPOSES 

I WAS right in my guess about Ada. I had a 
letter from Micky to-day with full particulars. He 
says it is that pretty daughter ; he is annoyed with 
Vane, for he says she has nothing underneath her 
pretty face and that he himself has no time for her 
at all, which means, I suppose, she has no time for 
Micky. 

“ It’s this way,” his letter goes on. “She’s been 
having a hard go for Vane for quite a while, as I told 
you. I suppose because when he first came up he 
was crazy on Ada and never looked at another girl, 
and of course in the end, seeing her every day, and 
her being so nice to him, he began to like her back, 
and now he s mad about her. He always gets it 
badly when he does get it. Says he’s going to 
marry her. I tell him not to be such a fool. Catch 
me thinking of marrying any girl for years yet, but 
I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he cleared off one day 
and did it, he’s like that, and you know a month or 
two ago his Uncle Ernest died and left him thirty 
thousand, so of course he could afford it. The girl 
knows that, and I think that’s why she’s going so 
strong. She’s a year older than Vane. I don’t ' 


DR. PHILIP PROPOSES 


337 

know what to do ; you see I can’t tell his people on 
him.” 

She must have let Micky down pretty hard, but 
isn’t it bad news! No wonder Ada is getting circles 
round her eyes. If only he wasn’t so far away. It’s 
true, as the proverb says, that absence makes the 
heart grow fonder — of some one else. 

Perhaps that’s what is happening to Bob. 

Gracious 1 I must stop myself always switching 
back on to him, for I’m going to marry Dr. Philip, 
although he doesn’t know it yet. He asked me to 
last night, but somehow, although I’d screwed my- 
self up to it and given him the chance to do it, when 
he actually did I couldn’t say ” Yes ” outright. It 
seemed so final and irrevocable. 

I So I put him off. I asked him to wait for my 
answer till the family got back from Cairns. I said 
I couldn’t be engaged without their consent, and I’d 
feel so underhand somehow if we were even engaged 
between ourselves without their knowing. 

He was so nice about it I simply hated myself ; he 
blamed himself for asking me while they were away, 
and said it was sweet of me to feel like that. That 
isn’t my reason at all ; it’s plain cowardice. I want 
to stave off the decision as long as I can, and he 
thinks it’s filial respect. 

What hypocrites we women are ! 

Anyway, I’m free for another fortnight. But I feel 
as mean as catsmeat whenever he comes near me. 
I do wish he wasn’t so — so — elevated in his moral 
outlook or something. I’m afraid he’ll be hard to 


TIME O’ DAY 


338 

live up to. He thinks such a lot of women. I don’t 
wonder, with an angel of a mother like he’s got ; but 
fancy Thyme O’Dea trying to understudy an angel. 

Sometimes I think I can’t do it, but what else is 
there for me? 1 can’t stay an old maid on the 
family’s hands — it would be dreadful. And I can’t 
earn my own living, I haven’t any brains ; the only 
things I can do well are cook and sew, and the family 
would have hysterics if I started as a dressmaker, or 
went out as a cook ; and besides I couldn’t do it. I’d 
die of shame when I met people I knew. 

I wonder why he wants me. I suppose because 
I’m so unlike himself. He is so cold and reserved, 
why, imagine, G.G.C., he hasn’t once kissed me, not 
even when he asked me to marry him. Of course I 
didn’t say ‘‘ Yes,” but I didn’t refuse. Do you think 
he really loves me ? Sometimes I wonder if it isn’t 
just that he thinks I can talk and entertain well, and 
would make a charming hostess (this is straight 
family talk, G.G.C.) for his home, and I haven’t any 
glaring faults he can see, and seem to be docile, and 
he has reached an age when he needs to settle down, 
and I’m about the best all-round applicant for the 
position he has met. 

I ought to be ashamed of myself talking like that, 
for he does love me very much in his own way, I am 
sure, but it’s not a way I’m used to. 

Well, I’ll have a lifetime in which to get used to 
it. Till death do us part.” 

How terrible and final it sounds ; no wonder I put 
off saying “ Yes,” but I’ll have to some time. Even 


DR. PHILIP PROPOSES 


339 

I Gordon sees that. We talked it over to-day. At 
i least what he said was, “ If you feel there is noth- 
i ing else for you, I suppose there isn’t. If you were 
a different sort of girl — but then it’s no use sup- 
' posing. It’s not,” he went on kindly, “ that you’re 
i such a little rotter in yourself, it’s the way you’ve 
been brought up. Hardly that ultimately, the fault 
I of the system. It’s a wrong system, to train up girls 
i to the idea that marriage, even with love, is the end- 
all and be-all of their existence, for suppose love fails 
I them, as it has with you, they still can’t get away 
Urom the idea that they’ve got to reach their goal, 

■ even without love. It’s abominable,” he ended in- 
; dignantly. 

, “ I suppose it is,” I agreed. Gordon always makes 

you agree with him at the time, even if, when you 
get away from him, you think his ideas outrageous. 
“ But what else can I do ? And he really is a dear, 
iyou know,” I ended contritely. 

1 “ He is,” Gordon endorsed. “ That’s what makes 

you more of a cad.” 

Really Gordon doesn’t mince his words, does he ? 
I had a sudden flash of temper. 

‘‘ All right,” I said ; “ you tell me what to do 
then. I can’t see there’s any other place for me in 
the world.” 

{ ‘‘ A place I ” Gordon sat up, and his eyes posi- 

tively sparked at me. '‘A healthy, able-bodied 
young woman of twenty-two asking what place for 
her 1 Run away from home, if that is what hampers 
jyou. Your family don’t live to please you, why 


340 


TIME DAY 


should you live to please them ? Go out as a nurse- 
girl, and learn to love your kind, or hate ^em, it ^ 
doesn’t matter which, so long as you get beneath 
the frill of things and find out human nature, not 
wrapped up in the swaddling bands of social conven- 
tion. Then if you find you can’t stand it, come back 
and marry Phil. You’ll have at least learned to ap- 
preciate what he can offer you. Now you merely look 
on him as a rather disagreeable way of escape from 
the family, and a means to the comfort you’ve been i 
used to, and you’ll spend your life fretting because I 
he’s not another man who’s more of a blithering 
idiot than himself.” 

** Why more, Gordon ? ” 

He laughed shortly. ‘‘ Any man’s an ass to want 
you, but ” — he laughed again — “ he’s a bigger ass 
not to. Oh 1 you’re educating all right.” 

“ I wish you wouldn’t wander from the point,” I 
complained. 

“ Well, run away, as I said before ; it’s your only 
hope of becoming a woman and not a doll. Work 
your way about the world. Go as a stewardess on 
one of the boats. I’m going as deck-hand.” 

“Gordon,” I said, “I couldn’t. Suppose I met 
people I knew.” 

Gordon looked at me queerly. “What an in- 
grained little snob you are, Thyme,” he said. “ I 
wonder if we could dissociate your soul from the 
exquisite wrapping of your body, how many of us 
would not be appalled at its feeble hideousness ? ” 

“ But, Gordon,” I said, passing over his rudeness — | 


DR. PHILIP PROPOSES 


341 


I’m too used to it to mind now, and besides, he 
doesn’t mean one-half he says — ‘‘are you going 
away, really, or are you only joking? Leaving 
me ? ” 

“ It’s to get away from you I’m going,” he retorted 
unfeelingly. 

“You’re a pig/’ I said. 

“ You’re worse,” said he. “ You’re an octopus 
that gets your tentacles round men’s souls and drags 
them down, and drowns them in the deep waters of 
affliction, whence they rise, let’s hope, purified and 
chastened. Perhaps you’re some good in the world, 
j after all.” He contemplated me as if it were a new 
[idea. He was lying on his back staring up at the 
I sky as usual. Gordon always sprawls if he can, he 
says it’s because he has such a long back to hold up, 
and he believes in the conservation of energy. 

And somehow, as he watched, his face softened, 
and I felt good-tempered again, and I pulled his hair, 

I and he suddenly opened his lips as if to speak, and 
Just as suddenly caught my hand and pressed it over 
his mouth, so he couldn’t, and while he held it there 
he kissed my palm. It felt so funny, and from old 
Gordon too. 

Then he pushed it away and sat up. 

“ Thank heaven I didn’t say it,” he remarked irrel- 
evantly. 

“ Say what ? ” I asked. 

“ None of your business,” he replied. “ I’m going 
home. Good-bye ! ” And he was over the fence be- 
fore I regained enough presence of mind to stop him. 


342 


TIME O’ DAY 


I did succeed in grabbing his coat as he jumped, 
and there we had a tug of war over the fence ; but he 
made such a noise Mrs. Haste opened a window 
further down and called out to know what was the 
matter. She couldn’t see us because of a tree. 

“ There you are,” Gordon threatened. “ If you 
don’t let go Fll tell my mother you’re attempting to 
abduct me.” 

I let go quickly, for you never know what Gordon 
won’t say, and, as I told you long ago, G.G.C., she 
has always suspected me of designs on him. 

But isn’t he the queerest thing ever bom ? Do 
you know, I believe he does care about me after all. 

I wonder could I marry him instead of Dr. Philip ? 
I’d lots sooner if only he wasn’t so poor. And yet 
perhaps we shouldn’t get on if we were married. I j 
don’t mind his seeing through me now and being 
rude to me, because I’ve got other men to pet me 
and think me an angel ; but if he were my husband I 
shouldn’t have, should I ? And I can’t live without 
petting. 

How awful this does sound, the way I keep dis- 
secting people to see if I could stand them as hus- 
bands, but of course this is strictly private, and, hang 
it all, if a girl oughtn’t to weigh a thing like that 
carefully, what ought she ? You might say, if I can’t 
make up my mind at once which I like best, it doesn’t 
matter which I take. It’s maybe very handy to 
decide small matters by such a rough and ready rule, 
but you wouldn’t toss up so lightly if the purchase 
was of a race-horse, which would cost you some cool 


DR. PHILIP PROPOSES 


343 


thousands ; much less then in purchasing a husband, 
when I must pay the price of my whole fortune, to 
wit, myself. 

If Gordon wasn’t so rottenly poor ! We do get 
on, and, in a way, I like being treated as a person 
instead of a pet. Even Bob never quite seems to 
realize I’m grown up. To discuss anything seriously 
with me he’d either think indecent, or a waste of 
time that might be better spent. He once said he 
hated to weary his lips with talking when they might 
be put to pleasanter uses. 

But of course the chief question is not ‘‘Will I 
marry Gordon? ” but “ Would Gordon marry me?” 

I don’t think he would. 

And I’m sure I don’t blame him. 


CHAPTER XLVII 


GORDON BREAKS OUT 

Every one else was right and I was wrong, or 
rather every one else was wrong and I was right — 
both are true — for Gordon wants to marry me, al- 
though he says he won't. We argued it all out to- 
day. We went down to Manly again — don’t laugh 
at our eternal Manly, G.G.C. I don’t know how it 
is, but if we’ve anything difficult to have out with 
each other we always go there. It seems the place 
for explanations. It always seems easier to talk 
things over out-of-doors ; the winds blow away your 
pettiness and little tempers and narrow views of 
things. How, with the endless space over you and 
the cool detached clouds lazing about some miles 
above, can you think your tiny worries of any im- 
portance in the scheme of things ? Gordon and I 
had tea first, to get up Dutch courage, and then 
went for a walk toward the Head. 

It was a heavenly day. The sea glittered like a 
necklace, and the usual crowd of holiday-makers, to 
which we of course belonged, were sprawling on the 
cribbly sand. Don’t you love the little scarlet 
youngsters who lie, slowly boiling themselves by the 
hour, in pools about six inches deep I It always 


GORDON BREAKS OUT 345 

makes my own back shiver in sympathy to think of 
how they'll feel next day. 

We walked along quite sedately, and I suppose 
every one thought Gordon a moonstruck man and I 
his fancy ; and all the time I was wondering what 
he had brought me for, and I don’t know what he 
was thinking. He looked lazy and slightly amused 
as usual, but I noticed several girls looked twice at 
him, and I began to feel pleased. 

He didn’t explain anything till it was nearly time 
to go home. We were sitting on that flat rock on 
the top of the Head, with the bay on the left and the 
ocean breaking on the rocks far below our feet, and 
suddenly Gordon said to me : 

‘‘ I suppose you know what I’ve brought you here 
for.” 

‘‘No, I don’t. What for?” I asked patiently. 
I’m used to Gordon’s ways. 

“ To make a dashed fool of myself,” he replied 
crossly. ‘‘ In other words to tell you I am going 
away, though why the devil I couldn’t go with- 
i out telling you ” He shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Oh, Gordon,” I said dismally, “ you’re not really. 

' What for?” 

“You know well enough. Miss Innocence,” he 
retorted. 

“ I don’t,” I protested. “ Why should you ? ” 

He eyed me critically. “ What a conceited little 
brat you are. Thyme,” he commented. “ You know 
perfectly well why I’m going, but nothing but con- 
; fession, humiliating confession, will satisfy your dis- 


TIME O’ DAY 


346 

gusting and inexorable vanity. Well, you shan’t 
have it. I may be one of your victims, but I’m 
dashed if you’re going to gloat over me.” 

“ Oh, Gordon,” I sighed, ” I do wish you’d talk 
like a sensible person.” 

“ I wish it more than you do,” he replied. He 
took an empty pipe out of his pocket and sucked 
feverishly at it, but I was too upset to laugh. 

“ What is the matter, Gordon ? ” I coaxed. “What 
is it you want ? ” 

“ You I ” he snapped with such violence I nearly 
fell off the rock. “ But,” he added determinedly, as 
he stuffed the pipe back in his pocket, “ I won’t have 
you.” 

“ But why ? ” I asked meekly. 

“ I’d make you miserable and you’d drive me to 
drink,” he replied with uncompromising candor. 
“ You’re not the sort of girl for a chap of my tem- 
perament. I’m erratic, moody, adventurous, always 
wanting to be on the go, sensitive to too many im- 
pressions — the artist temperament makes a mess of 
marriage. If I ever do do it, I ought to have a solid, 
sensible, well-balanced sort of woman who’d put up 
with my whims and pet me. Now you,” he went on 
accusingly, “ want to be petted yourself. You 
wouldn’t soothe, you’d exasperate.” 

“ Gordon ! ” I said, almost in tears. 

“ Well, you would have it,” he said, “ and now I 
hope you like it. There’s a lot too much sentiment 
wrapped around marriage. Marriage means a home, 
and a restful atmosphere of peace and comfort, and 


GORDON BREAKS OUT 


347 

soothed nerves, and everything that love isn’t. I 
love you — oh, yes, you’re just the sort of girl a 
fellow like me does go cranky over — but I’ve got 
more sense than to think of marrying you, even 
if you’d have me, and I think you’re a good deal 
too shrewd, aren’t you? Anyway, you won’t get 
the chance.” 

“ Gordon,” I said exasperated, “ you’re downright 
insulting.” 

“ Well, I don’t mean to be. I’m not the sort of 
fellow for you even if I were a millionaire. Do you 
think I can’t see it? You want a man to cuddle and 
pet you and treat you like a combination of favorite 
slave and baby sister. I’d expect more of you than 
you can give, not more than you could give, that’s 
what maddens me at times. You’ve got the makings 
of a wonderful woman, but you don’t want to be her, 
and you wouldn’t be. Very few of us do want to be 
our best selves — men or women either for that mat- 
ter — it’s much easier to be just what other people 
expect. It hurts so to grow to one’s full stature in 
cramped surroundings.” 

He fell to musing and watching the sea, and for 
a while there was silence. Then I slipped my fingers 
into his. 

“ Gordon,” I said, “ I’m sorry.” 

He gave them a squeeze and then dropped them. 
“ For goodness’ sake, don’t,” he said, ** or I shall 
make a bigger ass of myself than I’ve done already. 
Hadn’t we better be getting home ? ” 

But I didn’t move. “ Gordon,” I said, “ if — if it’s 


TIME O’ DAY 


348 

only me driving you away, can^t we — now I know, I 
mean — can’t we stop as we are ? ” 

“ We can stop,” Gordon replied, “ but not as we 
are. Nothing in nature stands still. We must go 
backward or forward.” 

“ How horrid,” I said. ‘‘ What on earth can we 
do ? It’s so unusual.” 

“ Why, I thought you were used to coping with 
these situations,” Gordon said, and then he added 
hastily, ** I didn’t mean to say that. Thyme. I’m a 
beast.” 

“ You are,” I agreed. “ But it does seem so queer, 
Gordon. I can’t get quite used to it yet. Can you? ” 

*‘Oh, I’ve managed to accustom myself to it,” 
Gordon replied, “ without any violent effort. But 
there’s no use worrying your head about it, kid, so 
come home.” 

** And must you go away ? ” I queried mournfully. 

“Well, there are limits,” said Gordon. “You’re 
going to marry Dr. Philip. I’m philosopher enough 
not to try and cut in where I know it would be mad- 
ness, but I’m common garden fool-man enough not 
to be able to stand by and see another get what I 
hanker after. Of course I must go away, and the 
sooner the better. I’ll soon forget you when I’m 
where I can’t see you,” he added hopefully. 

I slapped his cheek. I couldn’t help it. I reckon 
that was the limit, don’t you, G.G.C. ? And coming 
back to the ferry I gave him such a detailed and 
pointed address on the peculiarly rotten badness of 
his manners that it quite drove the other affair from 


GORDON BREAKS OUT 349 

our heads, and we were both as cheerful as usual by 
the time we got home. 

I suppose I ought to be glad heUl forget me, for 
when Fm married to Dr. Philip Fll have to stop 
thinking about other men, won^t I ? But somehow 
Gordon^s going out of my life, on top of Bob’s leav- 
ing, makes me feel so terribly lonely. 

But it’s the first time I cried since he went to 
Melbourne. 


CHAPTER XLVIII 


THE TRUTH ABOUT BOB i 

Oh, great-grandchildren, I wonder if after all 
things could ever possibly get right again. Oh, 
they couldn’t, but just suppose. If they do, it will 
be all through Stan Gale. He’s a lamb and a pet 
and everything Bob’s brother ought to be ; and, do 
you know. I’ve met him before. It only dawned on 
us to-night. I’d forgotten all about it. Do you re- j 
member when we went to see the kids off, and Bob 
was on board seeing off Stan ? We recalled it to- 
night, while we were sitting out a dance together at ! 
the Mottisons’. He asked me if I wasn’t the girl 
who had been talking to Bob when he came up, and 
said he had an idea when Dolly introduced us that i 
he knew me, but thought it must be a chance resem- 
blance to some one else since he couldn’t place me. | 
Fancy my forgetting too ! But we were introduced 
so hurriedly, as we had to leave the boat, and I had 
a veil on and furs, so that he didn’t see much of my 
face. 

But I remembered the minute he reminded me, and 
somehow his being introduced by Bob first made me 
feel I knew him reams better, although he has always 
been awfully nice to me wherever we meet. And I 
love being with him ; I don’t feel so quite cut off 
from Bob when I’m talking to one of his people. 


THE TRUTH ABOUT BOB 


351 

And he took us home. A lot of us were coming 
by the last tram, for I’d been to dances the two 
nights before and felt a bit tired, and Ada didn’t 
want to stop to the end either, she said, as she had a 
heavy day to follow at ** kindy.” She looked down- 
right ill. I didn’t want her to go at all, but she 
would. She had great rings under her eyes, and 
seemed frightfully nervy and restless, for her ; she is 
generally so placid. She danced a jolly sight too 
much with Mr. Wymondham, too, for my taste. I 
refused to dance with him myself — of course with 
the polite evasion that my programme was full, 
which it wasn’t when he asked. And he smiled at 
me in the most evilly peculiar way, as if he had a 
wicked joke on me up his sleeve, and I saw him 
book five straight off with Ada, and heaven knows 
how many more they really had. 

I should like to scrag Vane. 

I wonder if he’s arranging to take her out any- 
where. As I went past them once I heard him say, 
‘'Then you won’t be afraid to go alone. You can 
go straight to ” 

That’s all I heard. But Ada simply must not go 
out with him. I shall speak to her about it to- 
morrow, not that I suppose she’ll take a bit of notice 
of what I say. I do wish mother were back. I’m 
sure they’re more intimate than they seem to be, and 
I feel just worried to death. 

I heard him say that just as she came into the 
dressing-room to get her cloak — he had brought her 
to the door — but in the hurry of the minute I didn’t 


TIME DAY 


35 ^ 

think any more about it till now. The others were * 
all waiting in the hall, telling us to hurry up, and 1. 
couldn’t find my cloak or Ada her shoes. Some 
idiots had gone into the room and mixed up all the 
wraps for a joke ; it was a perfectly ridiculous joke, 
for it lost Ada and me our tram. 

I found my cloak, after searching for ages, and ini 
the end, after hunting frantically against time among 
the dozens of pairs about the floor, with the others 
in the doorway saying they’d have to go without us, 
Ada discovered her shoes perched on top of the 
door. She simply couldn’t go in her dancing slip- 
pers, for they were white satin, and it had been rain- 
ing all day ; they’d have been soaked through before 
she got to the gate and she’d have caught her death 
of cold. 

And when we did fly out to the hall we ran into 
Stan Gale, who was waiting for us. 

‘‘ The others have gone on. Miss O’Dea,” he said. 

“ They’d have missed the tram otherwise, and I said 
I’d drive you both home, if you would allow me. 
I’ve got my car here.” 

“ We should like it,” I said frankly, “ otherwise we 
should have to ring up for our own, and Smith would 
be furious at being routed out at this hour again, for 
he’s been kept up late every night this week, and is ; 
sulky about it. That’s why we thought we’d better 
go by tram to-night. But won’t we be taking you 
away from your partners ? ” 

“ No,” he replied ; I’m not booked beyond this. 

I really meant to leave early myself, so if you’ll wait 


THE TRUTH ABOUT BOB 


353 

here a moment I’ll go round and turn out any 
couples who may be sitting out in it and bring it 
round to the door.” 

It was a perfect night for motoring, and we had 
a great drive home. It wasn’t a bit cold after the 
rain, and it was the softest, clearest moonlight. I 
half-shut my eyes and pretended it was Bob; he 
looked exactly like him in that light, and the motor 
was the same one Bob used to drive. And all of a 
sudden, before I knew what I was doing, I started 
to cry. I did it quietly though, and I hope Ada 
didn’t notice — she was at the back, I was sitting be- 
side Stan. 

He was frightfully upset when I cried, and I 
managed to stop after a minute. Of course I had 
to say nothing was the matter. I couldn’t tell him 
I was crying because he looked like his brother, 
could I ? But I felt all along he suspected some- 
thing, for every time we meet he manages quite 
casually to give me news about Bob. He does it so 
nicely too, just as if he wanted to talk about his 
brother, and it was kind of me to listen and not be 
bored. But to-night at first I thought he seemed a 
little stiff, and at last he said : 

‘‘Am I to congratulate you, MissO’Dea, or isn’t 
it public property yet ? ” 

“ What do you mean ? ” I said. 

“ Well, I hadn’t heard it from anywhere else,” he 
replied, looking at me keenly, “ that’s why I didn’t 
know if I should mention it, but Dolly Lawrance told 
me to-night you and Pip were engaged.” 


354 


TIME O’ DAY 


“ It’s a lie I ” I said indignantly. All of a suddeir 
I realized I couldn’t marry Dr. Philip, I just couldn’t ; 
if he’d been there that minute I’d have told him soj 
straight out. Somehow Bob’s brother saying it made 
it sound dreadful, but it was like Dolly’s spite toj 
tell him of all people. Unconsciously I spoke my 
thoughts aloud. ‘‘The little cat,” I said ; “she only 

told you so that you’d tell ” I realized what I 

was saying and went scarlet. 

“ Bob,” he finished for me, so nicely that I couldn’t 
be vexed. “That’s why I asked you. I don’t want 
to give him a piece of news like that if it’s not true. 

I don’t think he’d find it good hearing.” 

“ Oh, he wouldn’t care now,” I said sadly, before 
I thought; and then I bit my lip and glanced under 
my lashes at Stan. But he bent over his wheel, not 
looking at me. 

“ I’m sure you’re wrong,” he said at last. “ Look 
here. Miss O’Dea, perhaps you think it’s frightful 
cheek on my part butting in. It’s none of my busi- 
ness, of course, but Bob and I are rather special pals ; 
perhaps it’s because we were left on our own for so 
many years while the family were in Europe, but— 
well, we think a heap of each other, and I know 
something’s up with him. We’re a proud family, 
and we won’t ask favors for ourselves, but, as you 
see, I can humble myself for Bob— couldn’t you 
make it up ? ” 

He shot the question at me so suddenly, I hadn’t 
time to think of fencing, and I answered just as 
bluntly : 


THE TRUTH ABOUT BOB 355 


“ He won’t Besides, perhaps he doesn’t care any 
more now.” 

“ He does,” Stan said earnestly, and he was so 
absorbed in what he was saying he nearly ran a 
man down ; “ I’m sure he does. I saw something 
had happened the minute he landed home, and when 
he never told me a word about it, 1 knew it was 
something bad, and ever since I’ve been over here 
I’ve been trying to find out what it was ; and when 
he ignored my mentioning you in his letters I 
thought I’d hit on it, and when he passed through 
} here last week I knew it was you.” 

Bob here last week ! ” I cried. 

I “ Yes ; he passed through on his way to Brisbane. 

! He’s on business, but I told him business alone 
I wouldn’t give him the look he was wearing. And 
when I tried to get him to— well, I just brought 
! you up. I hope you’re not frightfully wild with 
j me, but I am fond of Bob, and I know he’s mis- 
erable.” 

“ So am I,” I sighed. 

I knew you were,” he said triumphantly. ” Oh, 
can’t you stop being silly, both of you ? ” 

“ What did Bob say when you spoke about me ? ” 


I parried. 

“ He— he told me to shut my head,” Stan con- 
fessed reluctantly, “ but that was because he felt so 
bad he couldn’t bear to talk about you. If he hadn’t 
cared so much he’d have told me all about it. Miss 
O’Dea, won’t you help him out? We Gales are a 


TIME O’ DAY 


356 

the wrong. He’s afraid to come to you ; he thinks 
you can’t care to see him any more. At the end, 
after I’d urged him to pocket his pride and go and 
see you, I half thought he would, and then he turned 
back and said roughly, ‘What’s the use? She’d 
probably have me shown to the door, and I shouldn’t 
blame her,’ and he caught an earlier train to Brisbane 
than he’d meant. I don’t believe he could trust him- 
self near you, and that’s about the size of it.” 

“ Oh, Stan, you are a dear,” I said impulsively. 

“I’m probably only a meddling idiot, but after 
what Dolly told me I felt I couldn’t hold my tongue 
any longer. Look here. Thyme ” (neither of us 
noticed at the moment we’d dropped the formal 
mode of address), “won’t you help him out? Bob 
wants to, but he can’t; I know just how he feels. 
He’s in the wrong, isn’t he ? So you can afford to 
be generous.” 

“ Oh, but,” I said, half-persuaded, “ how could I 
see him ? I ” 

“ I’ll fix that,” said Stan, brushing aside all my 
objections, “ when he gets back from Brisbane. You 
come and have tea with me one afternoon, and I’ll 
arrange for Bob to meet me there while I’m with 
you. I can even pretend I met you accidentally, if 
you like ; he won’t know. Come, you will ? ” 

“ It won’t do any good,” I said despondently. 

“ It will. Besides, it’s your turn to make over- 
tures. Bob told me, when I was arguing with him, 
that he did try once to apologize, and you simply 
walked off in the middle of his speech,” 


THE TRUTH ABOUT BOB 


357 


‘'But that wasn’t my fault,” I said as I remem- 
bered the Hyleses’ dance and the way Gordon had 
abducted me. “ It was an accident.” 

“ Well, Bob thinks you did it on purpose,” Stan 
urged. “You will say ‘Yes.’ ” 

And then it all seemed to come back on me in a 
flash, and I dragged my hand away. “We’re both 
mad,” I said. “ I couldn’t — I just couldn’t. You — 
you see ” — I fought with myself for a bit, and then 
I blurted it out in a rush — “ you see, Stan, there's 
Ida.” 

“ Ida I ” Stan said, starting. “ What’s she got to 
do with it ? Ida who ? ” 

“ Ida Lester,” I said. I’d gone too far to retreat 
now. “ Her husband was — was going to divorce 
her because of — of Bob, and so you see, Stan, I ” — I 
tried awfully hard to keep my voice from quivering 
• — “after that I couldn’t ask him to come back to 
me, could I ? That’s — that’s why I think you’re 
wrong. It’s Ida he cares for, not me.” 

“She’s our sister,” said Stan. 

Great-grandchildren, can you believe it ? I couldn’t 
for the minute — it was too wonderfully glorious for 
speech. And when Stan found out that that was 
what really lay between us I thought he’d have 
tipped the car over in his joy. And I felt so 
ashamed. I might have trusted Bob more. To 
think of the misery I might have saved us both if 
I had asked Ida instead of judging by appearances. 
Still, how could I ever dream of such a thing when 
she said she didn’t even know him ? 


TIME O’ DAY 


358 

Stan says that was because she is so proud. Since 
her marriage turned out badly she has cut herself off 
from them entirely. I suppose she feels she treated 
them badly in running away, and she can’t bear to 
acknowledge she made a mistake ; she can’t humble 
herself enough, so she has pretty well slipped out of 
their lives. Bob, though, found her out when he was 
in Sydney, and insisted on keeping a brotherly eye 
on her, but she made it a condition that he was never 
to be seen with her or let any one know of the rela- 
tionship. Of course she is only their half-sister. 
Perhaps if Mrs. Gale were her real mother she’d feel 
different, and besides she can’t stand her stepsisters 
at all, and she feels that even her father belongs to 
the other camp, not to her. I suppose in a way it’s 
natural. 

Stan told me all about it. I can hardly believe it 
even now. Oh, what a fool I’ve been ! Isn’t God 
good to give me another chance ? If only Bob were 
in Sydney now. I’d go to him and apologize this 
minute ; and to think I’ve to wait days before I can 
hear. Stan is going to write to him and explain. 
Oh, to think I shall see him again ! I wonder if he 
will forgive me for thinking such things about him ? I 
But how gorgeous life is, how wonderfully beautiful. 
Oh, Bob ! Bob I Bob ! That’s three kisses — huge 
ones ! 

I must stop writing, it’s nearly two o’clock. Ada ; 
is fast asleep long ago, or should be. I’ve heard her | 
tossing about a bit in her room. I mustn’t forget to ] 
give her that note in the morning. As she was 


THE TRUTH ABOUT BOB 359 

stooping, hunting about for her shoes, a note fell 
out of the front of her frock. I picked it up, but in 
the hurry of the minute forgot to mention it to her. 
I must try and think of it in the morning. 

Well, good-night, G.G.C. I It’s time I went to 
bed. But, oh, I do wonder if things will be right 
again. 

It seems too heavenly to be true. / 


CHAPTER XLIX 


THYME CHANGES HER NAME 

Great-grandchildren, Tve so much to tell you 
I don’t know where to begin. The miles of news I 
have ! I wish I could write with six nibs at once 
and then I might keep pace with all I’ve got to say. 
And it all began with that note Ada dropped. You'd 
hardly believe a tiny thing like that could have made 
all this happen, for I never thought any more about 
it till the next afternoon. 

You see, I was so tired after several late nights, 
and sitting up writing to you after Mottisons', when 
I should have been in bed, that I slept late next 
morning and when I got down to breakfast Biddy 
told me Ada had gone to her kindergarten. 

** Is Miss Ada staying away the night ? ” she asked 
me as I was in the kitchen fixing up for dinner. 

“Not that I know of ; she didn’t say anything 
about it to me. Why ? ” I answered absently. 

“ I was just wonderin’,” Biddy replied. “ She 
took a suit-case of clothes away wid her and her 
eyes looked red. If you ask me, Miss Thyme, 
there's something on that child’s mind. I do hope 
she’s not up to any foolishness.” 

Biddy still looks on us all as children ; she has 
been with us so long. I didn’t take much notice of 
what she was saying at first, but went on making 


THYME CHANGES HER NAME 361 

the salad, and wondering if Stan and I really had 
talked about Bob the night before, or if I had 
dreamed it all ; but bit by bit her words sort of ate 
into my mind, and I began to feel uneasy, I hardly 
knew why. There was nothing in Ada’s taking a 
suit-case, of course ; she might easily have arranged 
to stay away the night, and mightn’t have remem- 
bered to mention it. She’d probably telephone me 
later. 

But in spite of telling myself this I began to feel 
more uneasy. However, I didn’t see what I could 
do, for you can’t get Ada on the telephone at kinder- 
garten, and I could hardly telegraph her to know 
what she had a suit-case with her for — she’d be 
furious with me for making her ridiculous probably. 
Several times since the family went away she’s called 
me a “ fussy old fowl.” 

It wasn’t till after three, when I was sewing in the 
sun on the balcony, that I suddenly remembered that 
note. I don’t know why I should have connected it 
with the suit-case, perhaps what Gordon calls my 
I subconscious self knew more than I did. I put my 
sewing down and hesitated. We never interfere 
with each other’s correspondence at home, even 
mother would never dream of reading so much as a 
I post-card addressed to one of us, but somehow under 
the circumstances I felt I must — although it seemed 
rotten to do it when Ada was away. It mightn’t be 
of any importance either, I argued with myself. But 
' then what was she doing with it at a dance, and in 
j the front of her frock ? 


TIME O’ DAY 


362 

I finally decided to look at the writing and see if 
I knew it, and when I did, I knew my uneasiness had 
a reason, for the writing was Mr. Wymondham’s. I 
didn’t have any more scruples. I promptly read the 
note. It was only a couple of lines, no address, and 
no signature. 

“ Cabin 37. Ask to be shown to it as soon as you 
get on board. Wait till I join you there. Remem- 
ber we mustn’t be seen together till the boat has 
started.” 

I read it through two or three times without com- 
prehending it, and then the full awfulness of it 
dawned on me, and I gave a shriek and dropped it. 
But it was no use yelling ; something had to be done, 
and I was the only one there to do it. I thought 
rapidly ; it was no use trying for Gordon, he wouldn’t 
probably be at the office, and it would take too long 
to get hold of Fred at the Medical School, if he was 
there and not at a lecture or the hospital ; there was 
only me left. Ada and that beast ! I felt hot and 
cold all over. But what was I to do ? I didn’t even 
know which boat they were going by or where. 
Well, I’d chance Melbourne first, it was the most 
likely. 

I flew to the telephone and rang up the Melbourne 
Steamships Office ; my heart was just pounding with 
fright and excitement, for it was after three o’clock 
already. It all depended whether the boat was sail- 
ing at three or four. 


THYME CHANGES HER NAME 363 

“ That the Melbourne Steamship office ? ” I said 
when Central, after a frightful delay, put me on. 
“ Can you tell me what boats are leaving to-day for 
Melbourne ? ” 

“ There are two,” the clerk replied. “ The Warilda 
leaves at four o^ clock for Melbourne, Adelaide, and 
the west, and the ^Dimboola at three, for Melbourne 
only.” 

“ Then she^s gone already,” I cried, and I hardly 
knew my own voice. “ Well, please could you 
possibly tell me who has cabin thirty-seven in the 
Warilda?'^ 

“ I don’t know,” said the clerk. “ We haven’t the 
booking for her, but if you ring up the Adelaide 
Steamships they can tell you ; she’s their boat.” 

“ Thank you,” I said, and rang off. Then there 
was the business of trying to get on to the second 
office. I have never known Central so maddeningly 
slow before. I nearly cried as I waited and listened 
to her monotonous, “ Central engaged. Shall I call 
you when they are disengaged ? ” I thought I was 
never going to get them, and the precious minutes 
were ticking away and it was nearly half-past three. 

‘‘Hello, hello!” I said in a wobbly voice. “Ade- 
laide Steamships? Yes? Will you please tell me 
who has cabin thirty-seven on the Warilda? Yes, 
I want to know who has cabin thirty-seven.” 

“ Certainly,” said the clerk. He went away and 
looked. “ Mr. and Mrs. Wymondham,” he an- 
nounced through the ’phone. “It’s a two-ber ” 

I dropped the receiver like a hot coal and fled for 


TIME O’ DAY 


364 

the door. I forgot even to say, ** Thank you.” I 
suppose he thought he was dealing with a raving 
lunatic. 

“ Biddy I I shrieked. “ Quick, whereas Smith ? 
I must have the car at once.” 

“ Well, you can’t,” Biddy retorted, “ for he’s got it 
round at the garage for repairs this blessed minit.” 

“ Then ring up a taxi,” I said, “ quick, while I get 
a hat.” 

“ But what’s the matter at all ? ” Biddy demanded. 

“ I haven’t time to explain,” I gasped, half-way up 
the stairs. “ Fly, Biddy, and tell the man to drive 
like blazes.” 

I hadn’t time to change my house frock ; I simply 
flung a coat over it and snatched up my furs and a 
hat, and I could have hugged the taxi-man when I 
found him ready almost as soon as I was. 

“To the Warilda” I said as I got in, “ as quick as 
you can go. I must catch her.” 

“ Don’t think it can be done,” he said doubtfully 
as he looked at the watch on his wrist, “ not without 
breaking the speed limit.” 

“ I’ll pay your fine,” I said breathlessly. “ I must 
catch her, I must.” 

“ All right, miss,” he said, fired by my excitement. 
“ You shall.” 

And we did, but it was a nightmare of a drive. I 
sat there holding my watch in my hand, counting the 
minutes tick away till I felt I should go mad. And 
all the awful tales Gordon and Bob had hinted about 
him kept running through the back of my mind, but 


THYME CHANGES HER NAME 365 

the world seemed nothing but a bumping, flying taxi 
and flying minutes. 

And he dropped me at the entrance to the wharf 
at about two minutes to four. 

“ Run, miss,” he said. He'd begun to take quite 
an interest in our race by this time. “ They're start- 
ing to pull up the gangway. Run for all you're 
worth.'' 

And I did. To see me cut down that wharf must 
have been an eye-opener to people who say you can't 
move in tight skirts. As I told you, I used to be 
captain of our hockey team. The lumpers all cheered, 
and I almost fell over the bottom of the gangway, 
scarlet and breathless, just as they were beginning to 
hoist it. An officer who had torn down it as I ap- 
proached stopped the men for a second as they hauled. 

“ Passenger ? ” he queried, blocking the way. 

I nodded, I hadn't any breath to explain. 

“That was a close call,'' he laughed. I just 
noticed he had blue eyes and a nice smile. “ Is your 
luggage aboard ? '' 

“ No,'' I gasped. “ Yes, I mean Oh, it 

I doesn’t matter,'' and I stumbled up the gangway 
I while he followed, wondering, I suppose, like the 
steamship's clerk, what kind of a lunatic he'd 
struck. 

I paused for a minute to take breath when I got to 
the top, the gangway was half up, and we were 
already a foot away from the wharf. I felt suddenly 
like crying. I hadn't bargained on being carried off 
to Melbourne myself, and the whole place seemed 


TIME O’ DAY 


366 

suddenly full of hundreds of staring eyes, all looking 
at me. I turned blindly and commandeered a 
steward. 

“ Take me to cabin thirty-seven,” I said. 

** Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “ Mrs. Wymondham, 
ma’am?” 

I felt a scorching feeling all over, and I couldn’t 
answer. I suppose he took my silence for assent, 
for he led the way down and drew back the curtain 
of the cabin, and — there was no one there. 

I stood and stared stupidly at him for a minute, 
and he repeated : 

This is cabin thirty-seven, ma’am.” 

‘‘But-— but,” I stammered, “where is the lady who 
has it?” 

“ Mrs. Wymondham, ma’am ? ” he said in a sur- 
prised tone. “ I thought you were her ; there’s no 
other lady been here.” 

A horrid sick feeling began to settle at the pit of 
my stomach. “ There must be,” I said desperately. 
“ Whose baggage is that ? ” 

“ Your husband’s, ma’am,” he replied. “ It was he 
asked me to look out for you, he was afraid you’d 
nearly miss the boat. I’m your steward.” 

“ But he’s not my husband,” I said desperately. 
“ I’m looking for ” I stopped abruptly. I re- 

membered I couldn’t discuss my family with a 
steward, and although his face was politely impassive, 
I could see excitement in his eyes, and I reflected 
dismally he’d have the tale all over the ship in half 
an hour. 


THYME CHANGES HER NAME 367 

“ You can go,” I said abruptly. “ I’ll ring when I 
want you.” 

“ Yes, miss — ma’am,” he said. 

“ Miss,’’ I said sharply. ” I am Miss O’Dea.” 

“ Yes, miss,” he replied with the same irritating 
calm. ” Will you stay in this cabin then, miss ? ” 

“Certainly not,” I said, springing up with energy. 

“ If you haven’t a cabin, miss,” he went on with 
growing interest in his eyes, “ would you like to see 
the purser ? I’ll show you where he is.” 

“ Yes,” I said eagerly, and then I checked myself. 
Ada wasn’t in the cabin, but it didn’t prove she wasn’t 
on the boat somewhere, and I would have to look for 
her and consult her first before I went explaining the 
situation to any strangers. “No,” I added, “ I won t 
see him just yet. I’ll go on deck a while first. 1 11 
go to him later, he’s sure to be busy now.” 

“ Yes, miss,” the steward said again, and this time 
the undisguised curiosity of his glance made me 
flush. 

I left him abruptly and went along the passage with 
my head held high and my cheeks flaming scarlet. 
I could feel people glancing at me as I passed, and I 
knew my dramatic arrival had made me the subject 
of gossip already. My eyes were smarting, and I was 
aching to cry, but I looked frightfully haughty. I 
caught sight of myself in a mirror as I passed through 
the saloon, and I hardly knew my own face. 

And I stepped out of the saloon straight into the 

arms of Mr. Wymondham. 

“ My dearest Thyme,” he cried, so that the little 


TIME O’ DAY 


368 

groups of people standing about watching the city 
fade could hear him, “ you nearly lost us the boat. 
I was beginning to think Fd have to get off when I 
saw you flying down the wharf.” His eyes smiled 
evilly into mine, but to people round he looked the 
embodiment of solicitude. 

“ Where’s Ada ? ” I said bluntly. 

But he wasn’t put out. “ Come along up-stairs, 
dear,” he said, “ and I’ll explain.” 

I shut my lips on a burst of fury. What could I 
say in front of all those strange people ? I turned, 
therefore, and walked up the companionway to the 
boat deck. I walked straight ahead and seated my- 
self on the hatch in full view of the bridge and every 
one else ; but where no one could hear what we were 
saying. Then I faced him defiantly. 

** Where’s Ada ? ” I demanded again. 

For a while he didn’t reply ; he just sat and 
watched me with his evil smile and chuckled softly. 
I stood it as long as I could, and then I smote my 
palms together in anger. 

“Tell me where she is ; is she here ? ” I cried. 

He only went on chuckling. “ This, my dear 
Thyme,” he said at length, “ is a situation which I 
never dared hope the gods would be kind enough to 
afford me ; it is indeed exquisite.” 

“ But Ada,” I cried again. 

“ Haven’t you seen her ? ” he asked gently. 

“ No,” I said, my heart thumping madly again 
with a fearful hope. I couldn’t go on, I just looked 
at him. 


THYME CHANGES HER NAME 369 

Well, neither have I,” he said after a torturing 
little silence. 

“ Thank God I ” I said. 

He smiled at me again. No doubt it is nice and 
orthodox of you to offer thanks for your sister’s 
escape,” he suggested, “ but have you sufficiently 
considered your own position ? You’re in a bit of a 
fix yourself, you know. In fact, to use your excel- 
lent brother’s phraseology, you’re in a beastly mess.” 

“ You are a scoundrel,” I said, white lipped. 

“Possibly,” he said. “Do you mind if I smoke? 
You don’t seem as appalled as I expected you would 
be,” he went on in the same lazy tone. 

“ Why should I be ? ” I demanded haughtily. 

“ Well,” he suggested, knocking off his cigarette 
ash carefully against his boot, “ for one thing your 
reputation is at my mercy. But I think, though in a 
way I should like to humble your pride, I think I will 
marry you.” 

“ Marry me I What are you talking about, you 
beast ! ” I raged back at him. “ I’ll not stay here to 
be insulted ! ” I rose to leave him. 

He blew a cloud of smoke, and smiled wickedly. 
“ You will feel differently after I have circulated 
around the boat my story about you ^ he said mean- 
ingly ; then lifted his hat and walked away as though 
we had been talking about the weather. 

I burst into tears. I couldn’t help it, and I 
didn’t care who saw me. Was any girl in such an 
awful position before ? And all because I’d tried 
to save Ada. I just lay on the tarpaulins and 


370 TIME DAY | 

sobbed myself sick and then I heard a voice say, . 
“ Thyme/^ ■ 

I shivered and lay still, and again it said, “ Thyme,” 
and it didn’t sound like his voice. But surely there 
was no one else on board who knew me. With a 
sudden wild hope I looked up and saw — Bob. 

I didn’t stop to think, I just gave one stifled shriek 
and flung my arms around his neck. He was better 
than an angel to me in that minute, in fact he was an 
angel. 

“ Oh, Bob, Bob I ” I sobbed wildly, and then I 
realized what I was doing and took my arms away ; 
but I still clung to his hand ; I was afraid if I let go 
he’d vanish and I’d find he was part of the nightmare. 

“ You won’t go away, will you ? ” I sobbed. Promise 1 
me you won’t go away.” j 

“ Of course I won’t,” he replied soothingly. 

“ There, don’t cry any more, dearest ; nobody shall 
hurt you. You’re quite safe with me.” 

And queerly enough I felt I was, and I soon man- 
aged to stop crying. I sat and gazed at him ; it 
didn’t seem believable it could be really he. And 
then I looked up and saw the officer of the watch was 
smiling sympathetically at us, and I realized how 
comic we must look, and I drew away. Bob noticed 
my gaze. 

“ Don’t take any notice of him,” he said, “ that’s 
only Steve Corr. He’s a friend of mine ; I’ve often 
traveled with him. I was up on the bridge with him 
when I saw you talking to Gus Wymondham. What 
has he been saying to upset you so, girlie ? ” 


THYME CHANGES HER NAME 371 

“Oh, Bob,” I said, smitten with a new horror, 
“what are you thinking of me being here with 
j him?” 

“ Fm not thinking anything till I hear what youVe 
] going to tell me,” he replied. “ Fve learned sense at 
' last.” 

“ If you hadn^t come. Bob,” I said wildly again, 
“ I believe I should have thrown myself overboard ; 
‘ but how did you come here, anyway? Stan didn^t 

I expect you for two days yet. He promised ” 

I stopped abruptly and Bob smiled. 

“ What ! ” said he, “ has Stan been trying to make 
I it up between us ? the dear old beggar,” as I nodded 
I shyly. “ He’ll be pleased when we telegraph him. 

! But the fact is I haven’t seen him. I got a wire in 
I Brisbane to come back before Saturday, and I just 
rang Stan up as I left the train, but he was out, so I 
I came straight down to the boat. I saw she was sail- 
ing, and as I was feeling a bit out of sorts and fed 
up with trains, I thought the extra half-day wouldn’t 
make much difference. And now through it Fve 
found you.” 

“ If you knew how much more it meant to me 
finding you,” I said. 

“ Suppose you tell me all about it now,” Bob sug- 
gested. “ Look, it’s a bit public here, there’s a sort 
of seat a bit further down where Steve won’t have 
quite such a good view of us. Let’s go there.” 

So we did, and when I told Bob about it, he was 
so furious, I believe, if I had not restrained him, he’d 
have thrown the fellow overboard right then and 


372 


TIME DAY 


there. But by this time I had come to my senses. 

We mustn’t give the affair any more publicity than 
it’s got,” I said. “ We’ll simply ignore him till we 
get to Melbourne. But when we get there,” I 
shuddered, all the hideousness of it coming back, 
“ what shall I do ? ” 

“ Marry me,” Bob said promptly, and then as I 
just looked at him, It’ll have to be one of us, girlie, 
and you’d sooner me than him, wouldn’t you ? ” 

“Oh, Bob,” I said, and buried my nose in his 
shirt-front. 

When we got coherent again, quite a while after, 
we talked it over quietly. “ He’s a nasty beggar to 
deal with,” he said, “ and it’s quite possible he might 
set ugly stories going about you, dear ; he’s quite 
capable of it, and they’d be difficult to refute. It 
certainly seems the most feasible explanation that 
you’re eloping, so why not elope with me in earnest 
and get it over. We might as well get married now 
as a few months later — that is if you will marry me 
at all.” 

It took us nearly five minutes to get sensible again 
after that. 

“ Well, dear,” he said, “ that fixed up, the next 
thing is to put ourselves right with the ship. It’s a 
lucky thing, but I know the lot on this boat, and 
they’ll back us up. I’ll go and see the captain first 
of all and tell him the whole story and that we’re 
going to be married as soon as we land. He can let 
on to the purser and the others that we’ve run away 
together for reasons unknown, and it will be soon 


THYME CHANGES HER NAME 373 

round the ship, and we shall have every one’s sym- 
pathy. He’ll take you publicly under his wing, too, 
for Jimmy is a real old sport and he knows my peo- 
ple. He’ll have you sit at his table, and that will 
put you right if there are any cats on board.” 

“ Oh, Bob,” I said, and just looked at him. Some- 
how as he talked it all straightened out so simply ; 
there seemed to be nothing to worry about. 

‘‘Well, I’ll run along and get in my version at 
once,” Bob said, “ and then I’ll have a short conver- 
sation with our friend. He won’t enjoy it, but I 
shall.” 

And then I had another little cry all by myself 
because I felt so happy. 

And we got married next day in Melbourne. 

Yes, great-grandchildren, I really am what I once 
suggested to you in fun — I’m Mrs. Bob. So you see 
your great-grandpapa is settled, and you’ll never 
dream when you look at our photos that just to be 
your great-grandparents could have meant such 
excitement to us, will you ? 

The captain and Mr. Corr came with us to the 
registry office. They had both been so nice to me all 
the way over — in fact, every one was. Bob intro- 
duced me to all the officers, and some of them were 
always talking to me and keeping off curious pas- 
sengers. Bob said it was better for us not to be 
alone at all on the voyage. Isn’t he thoughtful for 
me? I never knew he was half as nice. Only it 
does seem unbelievable he’s really my husband at 
times ; it was all so sudden. And unless you’ve been 


374 


TIME DAY 


married in a registry office yourself, you can’t im- 
agine how unreal it seems with a man in ordinary 
clothes asking you questions, and office furniture all 
about, and no music or bridesmaids or friends to kiss, 
though both the captain and Mr. Corr kissed me and 
wished me luck. 

Bob took me to see his people next day. He said 
we wanted our first day to ourselves. He went the 
next morning and told them all about it, and then he 
brought his mother to me at the hotel. It was sweet 
of her to come, wasn’t it ? But I never felt so shy in 
all my life as when a little old lady walked into my 
room and Bob said, ‘‘ Mother, this is my wife.” 

We spent that day with them and that night, and 
then next morning I went shopping and got some 
clothes, and we came away. I shan’t tell you where 
we are, but we are having the loveliest time. I never 
want it to come to an end. Oh, children, it is so 
gorgeous to be loved, and he does love me so. Of 
course I know I’m not the first girl he’s cared about, 
or anything like that, but he says I have a sort of 
special place in his heart that he never knew existed 
till he found me one day sitting in it. I suppose, 
G.G.C., you are wondering what particular brand of 
credulous fool Thyme O’Dea has degenerated into, 
but it’s so easy to believe things you want to. 

But do you think he can keep on loving me at 
this forty horse-power four-cylinder rate ? I’ve got 
a horrible, skeletal, wriggle-your-bones-and-clank 
feeling that it’s too good to last. But oh, if it dies 
out soon I think I shall die too. Sometimes I almost 


THYME CHANGES HER NAME 375 

wish I could die now before the cold daylight of sober 
affection has had time to dispel the rosy dawn of 
madness. And yet perhaps there's a lot more in life 
than twenty-two has had time to discover. Maybe 
there are other things besides love. Only, of course, 
you can’t expect me to think so at present. Great- 
grandchildren, he Shut up. Thyme ! 

Of course we’ve had to think a little of the outside 
world too. We sent a wireless from the boat to Ada 
saying I was safe and would write when I reached 
Melbourne, and we telegraphed her we were married, 
and I wrote to her, and Bob wrote to dad, and I to 
mother and the family — oh, a runaway marriage 
means just endless explanations, because we didn’t 
want to give Ada away too badly. 

Of course I’m not worried by any fear the family 
will be annoyed. Mother will be a bit vexed to have 
missed the frill of a wedding, but she will be fear- 
fully pleased to say, My daughter, Mrs. Gale,” so 
it will be all right. I haven’t got used to being called 
Mrs. Gale yet. It was so funny last night. We met 
a friend of Bob’s here he hadn’t seen for years on 
i his honeymoon, and he introduced us to his wife, of 
course ; and Bob said, “ and this is my wife,” and he 
i put the most frightful emphasis on ‘‘ my,” and people 
' who were sitting at tables near us giggled like any- 
! thing, and I blushed. Isn’t it aggravating the way 
people always know you are honeymooners ? 

But I think the most uncomfortable minute of all 
was when I met his father and sisters. They were 
simply sweet, but the girls looked as if they wondered 


TIME O’ DAY 


376 

whatever I could see in Bob. I suppose most sisters 
feel that way about their brothers’ wives ; it seems ' 
so funny any one could really get excited over such 
a commonplace thing as a brother. But Bob says 
they really all like me tremendously, which is a bless- 
ing, though they don’t know me very well yet. When 
we telegraphed the news to Stan, he sent back the 
maddest message you ever read. The burden of 
it was, “ I told you so,” repeated about forty-seven 
times. Oh, I’m sure we’ve been giving the post 
officials a heap of interest this week. 

The only thing I feel a tiny bit sad about is Gordon. 

I had the sweetest letter from him congratulating us, 
and telling me by the time I got it he’d be in New 
Guinea. Dear old Gordon, I wonder why nearly 
every one’s happiness means some one else’s unhap- 
piness. It does seem to, because two people can’t 
have the same thing in this world, and by some per- 
versity of fate they always seem to want it. Is it be- 
cause there are so few things to be divided among 
so many, or just cussedness? 

But oh, I can’t think long of anybody but Bob. I ^ 
suppose it’s wicked of me and selfish, and I don’t 
know whatever Dr. Philip thinks of me, though Bob 
wrote to him himself, and he sent back the kindest, i 
most courteous note you can imagine. When I read | 
it I told Bob I nearly wished I’d married him instead. 
But you can’t help being selfish and happy when 
you’re in love. 

There, that’s quite enough. You must be bored 
to death, my dears, with my rhapsodies. But now 


THYME CHANGES HER NAME 377 

next time you look at the picture of the fat old frump, 
remember she was once mad and bad and happy as 
she hopes you all are. Bob’s calling me to go for a 
walk, so good-bye ! 

And oh, I should like to know what Dolly Lawrance 
said when she heard 1 


By the author of *‘Time O’ Day” 


PETER PIPER: 


The Boy-the Girl-the Woman 

Peter Piper, a charming Diana of forceful and original 
character, has been brought up and dressed as a boy until 
nearly out of her teens. The lover who comes into her life 
soon pierces her disguise, and the love-idyl which follows 
is told in a charming style and with vivid pictorial power. 
The idyl ends in a catastrophe for poor Peter, as such idyls 
not seldom do, where sheer, trusting, innocent love tempts 
passion to the breaking point. The lover goes away alone, 
and the scene changes to Adelaide, where our heroine 
appears as a debutante of rare charm and beauty. The 
episodes which ensue make an intensely interesting story of 
singular charm. This is a ‘first novel of more than common 
quality. Despite its title, it is no tale for the nursery, but 
rather a singularly intimate revelation of womanhood, 
from its first blossoming to ripe and abundant fruitage. 

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS 

“The author has unusual dramatic power and the faculty of tell- 
ing a story in a convincing and highly attractive way.** 

— 'Buffalo Evening News 

“A charmingly written romance — a dexterous blending of passion, 
pathos and the picturesque, treated with a delicate, skillful simplicity 
and artistic restraint .** — Philadelphia Public Ledger, 

“The confidential narrative of a woman who can see the Joke. 
She does see it,^ and she sets it forth, but she also sees the pathos 
and the tragedy.** — St. Louis Post- Dispatch, 

' “ Fresh and unconventional and touched with the wierd beauty 
of the Australian bush .*’ — New York Times. 

12mo. Cloth. Frontispiece in full color by Henry G. Peck 
$1.25 : weight 14 ounces 

George W. Jacobs & Company 

Philadelphia, Pa. 












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